1. Two weeks before Halloween bring the small box of Halloween decorations up from the basement. Scotch tape the two dimensional, cardboard skeleton to the front door. Open up the crepe paper honeycomb pumpkin and put it on an end table in the living room next to the gigantic, iron eagle lamp. Dump a bag of candy corn in an amber glass candy dish. Done. Smoke a cigarette and let the kids watch Creature Feature on the TV set all afternoon to get in the mood.

2. One week before Halloween grab a pumpkin at the supermarket when you run in to get cube steaks.

3. Check the TV Guide to make sure the kids don’t miss “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” when it’s on. Let them have the Swanson TV dinners in the little tins on TV trays in the den as a special treat that night.

4. Go to the town drug store down on Main Street to pick up supplies. Get a big bag of Smarties and Tootsie Rolls, film for the Kodak and some flash cubes, and let the youngest kids pick out a costume in a box – basically a flimsy plastic rain poncho with a picture of their favorite character on the front and a mask with minuscule eyeholes and a teeny slit for a mouth to (somewhat) breathe out of. They’ll probably choose something like Wonder Woman, Holly Hobbie, Casper the Friendly Ghost, Bullwinkle, Wilma Flintstone, Mighty Mouse, or Dom DeLuise. Possibly Vinnie Barbarino from “Welcome Back Kotter.” Or you know, maybe a cute, happy, clown. Everyone loves clowns.

5. Allow the older children to come up with their own costumes. Let them rummage through the attic for ideas. Possible options are: use the old rubber mask that you’ve had for fifteen years and wear one of dad’s flannel shirts and be something vaguely scary, or take an old sheet and cut some holes and be a ghost. They will go as a bum, a gypsy, and someone will throw an Afghan over their shoulders along with the sombrero that Grandma brought back from her cruise to Puerto Vallarta, and call that a costume.

6. Bake some homemade (Duncan Hines) cupcakes for the class Halloween party and make bright orange frosting by mixing red and yellow food coloring right in the can. Top with a Brach’s Mellowcreme Pumpkin. Deliver the cupcakes to the class party, enjoy the kids’ costume parade through the school, then go have a Virginia Slim with the other moms on the playground (no dads are there).

7. The night before Halloween, let Dad carve the pumpkin with the children. Cover the dinette set in the kitchen with newspaper and give him a butcher knife to make triangles for a nose and eyes. Have a Tab and watch “Laverne and Shirley” until it’s time to clean up. Toss all of the seeds because no one ever eats them anyway. Leave the jack o lantern inside because this is Mischief Night.

8. Halloween Morning, survey the Mischief Night damage. You got off easy with a light toilet papering of the shrubs in the front yard. There are several smashed pumpkins in the street, and some egged Chevrolets. Your El Camino and the Duster next door are clean. The house that got hit the worst belongs to the weird family on the corner who, instead of Three Musketeers bars, hands out creepy comic books about trick or treaters going to Hell.

9. Halloween evening. After an early dinner, turn the porch light on, light a candle in the jack ‘o’ lantern and put it on the front stoop. Tell the children to get into their costumes themselves and hurry up because their cousins are on their way over (on foot) and it’s important to get to the house across the road where they hand out McDonalds gift certificates. Those things go fast now that everyone’s in on the secret.

10. When the cousins arrive, bundle your brood within an inch of their lives. So what if you can’t see their costumes, they’ve still got masks. It’s freezing out there. There may even be flurries. They will all throw fits about their coats covering their costumes. Ignore them.

That's me as Casper.

11. Give the kids some old pillowcases for their candy and don’t forget their Unicef boxes. Hand them a flashlight from the garage and turn them loose. They will inevitably complain about the house on the corner that hands out raisins and toothbrushes. You understand though. Who does something like that? (People who watch PBS.) All the other neighbors are fine. Tell the kids to get you an extra rice krispie treat from Mrs. Allen. Hers are the best.

12. Hand out candy to all the trick or treaters. It seems like there are at least a hundred. Every year there are more. Thank heavens you got an extra bag of Dum Dums and Bazooka.

13. When the kids get back, quickly scan their candy to make sure it’s okay, knowing this is ridiculous because you know all of your neighbors. You are secretly excited about all the homemade treats and the McDonalds gift certificates because you can go get those crispy, bubbly, deep fried apple pies tomorrow. Steal a couple Snickers.

14. Throw out ALL of the Necco Wafers and Sugar Daddies. These are disgusting. Take snapshots of the kids smoking candy cigarettes. Send everyone to bed with the rest of their candy.

2. Redecorate your entire house with fall wreaths, decorative gourds, wicker pumpkins, all things orange and brown and rustic, and be sure to remember as many pieces of wood with inspirational quotes about harvest and family and gratitude painted on them as possible.

3. October 1st – begin important research into acceptable Halloween costumes free of cultural appropriation, micro-aggressions, and anything that may, in any possible way, cause anyone to feel even slightly uncomfortable about anything. Scour Etsy for cute felt animal costumes that look very twee and somewhat vaguely Scandinavian. No, your toddler can’t go as Chase from Paw Patrol because people have been seriously traumatized by dog attacks and many people have phobias of dogs and may be triggered.

4. Fail utterly at convincing your eleven year old daughter not to pick a “cat” outfit that looks exactly like a feline prostitute, complete with fishnet thigh-highs and a bustier because “ALL HER FRIENDS’ COSTUMES HAVE GARTER BELTS, MO-OM.” Well, maybe this is because she has a healthy body image and will grow up to be a sex positive woman.

Photo via Pinterest.Com (Also a Joke, Don't Flip Out.)

5. Paint a teal pumpkin and buy non-food treats. Spend $87.00 on organic, locally grown boxes of raisins, and toothbrushes made from recycled yoga mats. Candy is out of the question. What kind of a monster would give kids candy?

6. Pray that your four-year-old son’s witch costume is not offensive to actual Wiccans, because Samhain is a very important holy day in their religion and people’s belief systems should not be objectified and reduced down to caricatures. The whole broom and pointy hat thing is an unfair stereotype, as is the green skin. Call your own mother and ask how one year she actually let you go as a Roma woman, because they are an oppressed European minority. She has no idea what you’re talking about.

7. Receive robo-call from your daughter’s school RE: URGENT CLOWN THREAT. The school is on lockdown because scary clowns. No one panic now.

8. Plan pumpkin patch visit. Pack family in car in coordinated plaid, earth-toned outfits, drive over an hour away, fight the hoardes of PSL fueled maniacs for a parking space. Stage informal, spontaneous (not really) photoshoot in the pumpkin patch with 400 other identical families doing the exact same thing, and then spend $135.00 on biodynamically grown pumpkins and a bushel of heirloom apples. Post 27 pumpkin photos on Instagram. Come home to find that everyone has an itchy rash from the hayride. Put arnica on it. #itsworthitfortheciderslushies

9. Buy expensive pumpkin carving kit with Dremel tool, stencils, and templates. Let the children watch as you spend four hours masterfully etching a complicated Halloween scene into the pumpkin’s flesh per something you saw on Pinterest. After fifteen minutes they get bored and disappear into their rooms to watch Charlie Brown on their iPads. Save all the pumpkin seeds to roast via the recipe you saw on Epicurious.

10. Dip elaborately carved pumpkin into bleach solution that you read about online in desperate attempt to preserve your masterpiece until Halloween. Place LED candle inside. Put on front step to find that the next morning it has been eaten by opossums.

11. Try desperately to get the kids to watch Hocus Pocus with you. Feel heartbreak when they don’t “get it.” Come on, there’s a talking cat! How can they not love the Sanderson Sisters?

12. No one liked the Epicurious pumpkin seed recipe. It was like eating tear dropped shaped bits of cardboard sprinkled with cinnamon.

13. No, your son cannot watch Halloween on Netflix. This movie attaches a stigma to mental illness, a serious condition that doesn’t actually cause people to wear weird masks and go on mass stabbing sprees. Michael Myers was a character that needed compassion and understanding, and a team of good medical professionals and holistic healers. Reiki could’ve totally saved Haddonfield, Illinois.

14. Receive note home from kids’ school that explains there will be an “Autumn Harvest Celebration” the week before Halloween, but that it must, under no circumstances, contain any references to actual Halloween. There will be no costumes or costume parade, and all treats for the classroom must be store-bought and individually wrapped and cannot be in the shape of ghosts, Goddess forbid.

15. Buy personalized, artisan-crafted, wicker, trick or treat baskets for the children on Etsy.

16. Mischief Night? Huh? That doesn’t sound very mindful.

17. Wonder why you feel like that mom in The Babadook. Post something on Facebook about how tired you are and how much coffee you need.

19. Realize you were so busy that you forgot to dress up. Your Halloween costume is officially the gold butterfly sparkle Snapchat filter. Change all your social media profile pics to a butterfly head selfie. This is fine because you look more attractive, are more interesting, and lead a richer life online anyway.

20. Relent when the entire family revolts and demands to trick or treat for actual candy. Explain that trick or treating is an unsafe activity, that you will not let them knock on strangers’ doors in the dark because we have no idea who our neighbors are, and even if we did know them, there are too many people leading double lives these days, so you can never really know anyone, so, fine we are going to the mall.

21. Joylessly trick or treat at the mall. Live Tweet your frustration as this turns into an epic battle to keep your youngest away from Build a Bear and your eleven year old in her “cat” costume out of Justice.

22. Get home before sunset. Attempt to get everyone to eat gluten-free, butternut squash and sage tortellini.

23. Meticulously inspect each piece of candy your children received from the mall because you can never be too sure about those girls that work at Pottery Barn. Find zero razor blades. Hand each child one cream soda Dum Dum because they seem like they have less food dyes.

24. Turn on the porch light, put out the terra cotta jack o lantern from Hearthstone, along with the teal pumpkin, listen to an Indie Halloween playlist on Apple Music, and wait for trick or treaters.

25. Three hours later – There was only one trick or treater and he appeared to be about twenty-three and was wearing a suit. Oh wait, he wasn’t trick or treating. He wanted to talk about some kind of religion. Give him all the raisins and toothbrushes anyway. Make him take them.

26. Bust out the Switch Witch. She needs all that garbage candy the kids got at the mall to heat her house or some BS. The kids look dubious, but you convince them to give up their Swedish Fish, Warheads, Sour Patch Kids, and Pretzel M & Ms anyway because the Switch Witch will leave them some toys in exchange.

27. Once the kids go to bed, eat ALL the Pretzel M & Ms. Throw the candy in the outside trash where no one will find it and leave the children a bunch of trinkets from Dollar Tree knowing full well they will hate you for this in the morning.

28. The next day – Relief. Now you can start getting ready for Thanksgiving.

Happy Halloween Everyone! May your October 31st be free of refined sugar and micro-aggressions.

1. Hear about the approaching storm two days in advance on the six ‘o’ clock network news.

2. Board up the house, put up the metal accordion shutters, tape all the windows, toss the patio furniture in the pool, bring all the yard art inside – this includes plastic geese, seahorse birdbaths, and metallic pink gazing balls.

3. Fill up several pitchers and bottles with tap water. Fill the bathtub too.

5. Pick up a few bags of ice at the corner store and fill the red and white Igloo cooler. Add a gallon of whole milk and a Styrofoam carton of eggs.

6. Hunker down with your family while following the storm’s progress on the radio. Wait for the hurricane to pass.

7. Listen for the eye of the storm, but have enough sense not to go outside. You can’t go outside anyway because you’ve nailed plywood over all the doors.

8. Use hurricane lamps for their intended purpose once the power goes out.

9. Once the storm has ended, take down the plywood, go out and survey the damage. Clean up your yard, help your neighbors clean up their yards, put a tarp on the roof until the hardware store reopens and you can nail up some new shingles. Read about the storm the next day in the local newspaper.

10. Make coffee, heat beans and Dinty Moore beef stew on the Weber and the Coleman on the back patio until the electric comes back on.

11. Be glad it wasn’t worse.

Now

1. Invest 3498-RLS has formed off the coast of Africa. It has a 785% chance of development over the next two weeks. PANIC.

2. Invest 3498-RLS is now somehow Tropical Depression 87 and is located somewhere off the coast of the Leeward Islands. Or something. Closely monitor the situation via Twitter, the Weather Channel App, the NOA website and ALL 24 hour news channels, even FOX, which insists that hurricanes are a hoax perpetrated by the liberal media. There was probably even a John Stossel documentary about it.

3. One week later. TD 87 has now become an ohmygod Tropical Storm named Madissynne. Shizz just got real. The Hurricane Hunters are already flying into the center of this thing. There is eyewall development and something about millibars and it’s not cool at all.

4. There is a cone. It is 1,500 miles wide, but where you live is in it. Maddeningly they call this the “Cone of Uncertainty.” Don’t they know you can’t deal with uncertainty?? Xanax is needed STAT. Your anxiety is through the freaking roof.

5. Obsess over THE CONE OF DEATH. Follow it hourly. Great, now it’s an effing Hurricane. Fabulous. Thank God there is round the clock coverage. Go shopping. Find adorable retro hurricane lamps at Z Gallerie. What are these things for anyway? But wow, are they so cute!

6. Watch as the TV meteorologists compare this to every hurricane in recorded history, especially all the ones with high body counts. They tell you to take this seriously, as if there is any other option because obviously WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. The pressure is dropping. At this rate, this thing is going to be a Category 11.

7. Wait 3 hours at the gas station to top off your car. You’re not sure why you need to get gas exactly, but it is apparently what to do, so you are definitely doing it. Take a picture of the gas lines and post to Facebook.

8. Rush to Home Depot and Costco so that you can buy plywood (for something? not sure) and pretty much a palate of batteries.

9. #HurricaneMadissynne is now a thing. Your friends are texting you funny hurricane memes, but one of them shows a satellite image of the storm and it looks like a skull and the world is definitely ending and this is a sign.

10. Remain glued to your social and your TV as Hurricane Madissynne barrels and lashes its way through the Caribbean and causes all kinds of devastating damage and horrific loss of life, but no one really cares about those people on those random islands because they are not here, are not our friends on Facebook, and therefore don’t really exist. Crack up over that PM your bestie sent you with the cats blowing in the wind.

11. Resume panic. Go to the grocery store and BUY ALL THE THINGS. All the things includes two cases of wine. Be very upset that the Simply White Cheddar Cheet-o Puffs are sold out. How can something like that even happen? Buy beet chips, hummus, almond milk, chia seed kombucha, spirulina, 70% cacao dark chocolate, organic sheep’s milk Spanish Manchego, and gluten-free flax seed crackers.

12. Plan hurricane party. Look on Pinterest for ideas. Make a bunting. Remember to panic when you hear the Hurricane Madissynne has the lowest recorded pressure of any hurricane in the Atlantic basin since the last hurricane a few weeks ago that also had the lowest recorded pressure in the Atlantic basin. Try to make sense of all the vastly conflicting forecast tracks. It basically looks like a toddler scribbled on a map. Give up.

13. Jim Cantore has arrived in your town and he is wearing his tight black tee shirt. If Anderson Cooper shows up in his tight black tee shirt all hope is lost. (Jim and Anderson in tight black tee shirts are the first two horsemen of the Apocalypse FYI.) Post something inspiring on Facebook so that if you die people will remember you as being really compassionate and yoga-like.

16. Lock your impact glass windows and breathe a sigh of relief that you are so well prepared for your impending death.

17. Conditions are totally deteriorating.

18. Go outside and go Live on Facebook to discuss “the calm before the storm.” Post status: “And so it begins” with a selfie of you outside.

19. The news is saying something about being on “the dirty side” of the storm and whatever that means is disturbing. There is a press conference with the governor and he has a Spanish translator and the person next to him doing sign language, which means that this is a really, really, really grave situation. Wait with baited breath for the 8pm advisory to tell you that yup, this is really happening.

20. Watch as local news reporters stand on the beach and act like they are blowing away while tourists frolic freely behind them in Speedos. Realize you have already eaten all the beet chips. It hasn’t even started raining.

21. Tell yourself that you are only allowed to eat raw fruits, veggies, almonds and green tea during this crisis. But then add: coffee, tortilla chips, one cookie, okay two, a Reese's cup, and just screw it. Eat everything in the house. All of it. The snacks are pretty much gone now and it's barely windy.

22. Where is this storm that was supposed to kill us? Time to go to the beach and take selfies. Lots of them. There are literally hundreds of other people taking selfies on the beach along with you. Literally. Your Instagram is LIT.

23. Go back home and wait for conditions to deteriorate some more. Plow through all of your snacks and drink more wine. Apparently sudden drops in barometric pressure can cause insatiable hunger. It’s scientifically proven.

24. The News: THE SITUATION IS DIRE. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. URGENT. THIS HURRICANE IS LIKE NOTHING WE’VE EVER SEEN. HURRICANE MADISSYNNE IS A DANGEROUS STORM. DEVASTATION IS — Oops, sorry, our bad. Never mind. These things are unpredictable. Obviously, better safe than sorry.

25. Several angry tweets later…#hurricanemadissyn #dodgedabullet

26. Invest 3499 – SQH has now formed in the southern Gulf of Mexico. We are monitoring the situation closely…

***Note to Readers: I am not attempting to make light of a situation that can truly be horrifically devastating. Hurricanes and all weather warnings should always be taken very seriously. That means that beach selfies mid-storm are not a good idea, okay? Stay inside and make good choices. Sometimes the news has to scare us to death because it really is better safe than sorry. Prayers for everyone affected by this hurricane and all others. These things aren't a joke, but there's always a silly bright side to everything, and I wanted to add a little levity to a pretty dark situation. I am literally writing this using my cell phone as a wifi hotspot and praying the power stays on.***

Hi. I’m guessing that you are probably reading this because you have set up a Google Alert for yourself. No shame. Not judging. I have one too, so I get it.

I know you’re having a hard time with the reaction to your recent Today Show performance. People said some things, Corey, and they made you cry, which is awful. Screw those people. Get out of bed. I’m not going to be one of them. I thought they were mean, and I sincerely don’t want to hurt your feelings. You come off as a person who’s probably had his feelings hurt enough already. I know your story, and you’ve been through some shit, man. Let me just stop to take a second and validate that.

However, Corey Feldman, we need to talk. Just you and me. This is going to go sort of Intervention style, and I might say some things that are tough to hear, but you need to listen to me.

What you did on the Today Show wasn’t working for a lot of us. I don’t know what it was about it, but I found myself, like many others, strangely fascinated by it. I could tell you were trying. I could see you remembering your choreography. I give you props there because I can’t dance at all. Not even a little bit, so I know this was tough. I could see you trying hard to channel Michael and I think maybe Kurt, and also a little Trent, plus, yeah, Kylo Ren. This is where you went wrong.

I could see how much passion you put into that performance, but it still went terribly wrong in the eyes of the public. I kept thinking: Dude. Come. On. You need to be yourself. Yourself now. Not yourself in 1987 and for that matter not anyone else from the late 80s either. That was a long damn time ago. We have moved on. We will love you for you.

The last thing anyone on the planet should ever try to do is be Michael Jackson. There was only one Michael Jackson, and the thing is, his window of actual coolness was very tiny and closed very quickly before he turned into a total wack job freak show. You do not want to be associated with that level of trainwreck. Seriously. Michael Jackson? He might have been a nice person to you, but he was the very essence of dysfunction and disaster and he looked ridiculous and was such a mess that he died from being a mess, and I tend to believe the stories that he was a pedophile, which I feel is so tragic.

You are better than that, Corey Feldman.

Michael Jackson as an aesthetic, not as an actual human being, is cheesy and lame. The only person who has even been able to come close to successfully emulating MJ is The Weekend or however the hell he spells his name, and he looks NOTHING like Michael. He just legit sings like him, except arguably better, and The Weekend is cool as shit. Why? Because he is original. There is no one else like him. IDGAF oozes off of him, and he doesn’t need to resort to a whole lot of schtick because he has real talent.

You have talent too. Also, you seem like the nicest person ever. I want you to stop with the dark evil look and be nice and inspiring. You got that in you, man. Do I have to get Tony Robbins on you?

If your songs are good, they’ll stand on their own, and you know what? As a proud ironic hipster, the more I heard your song, the more I liked it and that’s not easy for me to admit. But all the other stuff distracted me from it. What I’m saying is, if your music is real, you don’t need the drama, or the angels.

Can we talk about those angels? Fuck those angels. Not literally. I hate those angels. I’m sure they’re lovely girls, but I fucking can’t stand the image of sexy women dressed up in the Slutty Angel Halloween costume from Party City. How can I take this even a little seriously as art? I cannot. Neither can anyone else. It’s stupid. Stop making those girls dress like that. They will never ever be the Teen Spirit goth cheerleaders, nor can they ever compare to the Victoria’s Secret angels. Objectifying women into a pitiful cliché will never make you edgy. Just let them wear normal clothes. I feel like just getting rid of the angel costumes would change a lot.

No more cheeseball BS. You are better than that, Corey. Don’t forget it. I’m going to say it over and over ‘til it sinks in. I really want to send you to Stacey London for a makeover because I firmly believe that you could be transformed into a much classier, hipper version of hotness that would surprise a lot of people. I think with the right stylist you could be in that People issue about sexy men. Not even kidding.

Someone has mislead or mismanaged you and I’m sure there’s a long, upsetting, unfair story behind how this happened. Maybe you too made some bad choices.

But I am sick of listening to people make fun of you for it, and I want you to listen to me. I will not lead you wrong. We can show all of those haters.

You are a brilliant actor. I am offering up one of my deepest darkest secrets as proof. I even liked Blown Away. You are so good that you made Blown Away entertaining. It was a guilty pleasure. I had it on VHS tape. I really liked Dream a Little Dream too. Like, a lot. I don’t know why it wasn’t more successful. I thought it was great. At least in 1989 I did. I might think otherwise today, but back then I loved it and I wanted to be Meredith Salenger bad.

I don’t think talent like that goes away. Which means that you could be great again. Greater even.

Corey Feldman, you need to find your Tarantino.

Do you have a clue how awesome you would be in a movie that was actually well-written and well-directed? You would kill it in something Pulp-Fiction-esque. You need a genius director to take that chance on you like Tarantino did for Travolta. I could see you going full on Coen Brothers. You would be the greatest Coen Brothers villain since Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men. You need Paul Thomas Anderson. You need roles like Joaquin Phoenix gets. You can be that good.

You need an Oscar, Corey. We’ve got to get you a comeback. I’m even willing to start a petition to Hollywood to bring you back in something that isn’t straight to Netflix or a TV show that no one has ever heard of or is on VH1 (does that even still exist?) I’m talking real movies here. Sundance. Cannes. Toronto. Movies that are real art. Shy away from comedy and action, at least for now, because they can slide over into the lame-o category too easily.

I promise you, if I can ever get my shit together enough to write a screenplay, I will write you a part. But there are already people in Hollywood who are better writers than me, so I think you’re good there.

Make me one promise. Okay a few promises:

No more angels. Those girls are pretty in normal clothes.

Lose the schlock schtick. Let your art stand on its own.

Be yourself proudly. No one else is like you. We want the real you.

DON’T DO ANYTHING TO YOUR FACE. Age naturally. Don’t get plastic surgery or Botox or fillers or any of that garbage, ok? If you look like a freakshow you won’t get good parts and everyone will know you had work and everyone will make fun of you, and you will waste money jacking up your face so some asshole doctor can drive a red Maserati. So don’t. You look fine the way you are. If you disregard everything else I’ve said, listen to this. I really think that if MJ has left his face alone and looked like God made him that his life would’ve been significantly less tragic.

Start acting in quality stuff again. An amazing TV series (they need to find you a part on Westworld), great movies, fabulous writers and brilliant directors. You are hereby banned from doing anything cheesy even if you need to pay the bills. Work at Whole Foods before you take on a bad role in something awful. Maintain your dignity.

Because you are better than that, Corey Feldman.

I have faith in you. Lots of us do. You got this. We have your back, but you have to listen to me. We are praying for your comeback. We are #teamcoreyfeldman

And don’t be sad because a bunch of jackhole fools on the Internet said a bunch of bad stuff about you. Pick yourself up and prove them all wrong. Like actually prove them wrong, by not doing anything cheesy ever again.

I’m expecting good things from you. Don’t let me down.

If all else fails, take comfort in the fact that Brad and Angelina are getting a divorce and that news is so big that no one will even remember your performance because they’ll be too busy flipping out over Brad Pitt allegedly smoking too much weed or whatever they’re saying about him.

Let me first begin, as always, by telling you that this is not a sponsored post. Costco did not, and would never, ask me to review anything for them, much less a dollar ninety-nine slice of pizza and some free condiments.

So here’s what happened — I got hungry at Costco.

I try to avoid going to Costco at all costs. I feel like stuff about Costco should come with trigger warnings, because the place causes me panic attacks. It’s too big for me. There aren’t enough decorations. It’s way too ‘Murica for my delicate sensibilities.

As I said in my book, my tastes skew towards twee. I like to go to Nordstrom because when I shop I enjoy some live piano music, and ladies spraying perfume on me telling me I’m pretty. I like there to be a nice café that sells tiny French cookies that cost $75.00 that I can photograph from above and put on Instagram. Except here’s the deal. Syntax. I said I like to GO to Nordstrom, not actually shop there, because I can’t actually afford anything. I just go for the atmosphere. Or something. Plus, they don’t sell the 800 pack of Tampax, razor blades, sixty pound sacks of coffee beans, or entire shipping containers of coconut water, all of which I needed today. And yes, I realize that list sounds something like a New Age kill kit. All I need to complete it is a 100% organic hemp tarp and a ceremonial knife. Maybe one of those hooves they drink maté out of.

But don’t let me get off on a tangent. I had to go to Costco today, and as I hadn’t been in about a year or so, I figured I could handle it emotionally.

About halfway through getting the things on my New Age kill kit list, I found myself hungry. Now as everyone well knows, Costco is a good place to be hungry and poor. You can make an entire meal of free samples. At one point I was double fisting Larabars and it was everything. There were sausages and some sort of terrible olive spread, plus green chili taco things that smelled both delicious and like the grease of decay, and there was some cheesecake, which I don’t like, and it was all so exciting and FREE, and nothing makes food taste better than not having to pay for it. Then I made a fateful mistake.

And it was in trying to be healthy while consuming Costco free samples, which isn’t even possible, but this old man convinced me to try his COQ10 MK Ultra AK 47 some kind of mess of letters and numbers, pineapple juice. And it looked like actual pineapple juice, and I needed something to wash down the taco samples, and I believed that I was doing this for my health, so I slammed it. And then I almost died.

I don’t even have words for how bad this tasted. It was possibly the most fish-assed, bitter, vitamin flavored, taste-bud catastrophe I have ever drank. One time I bit into a bad shrimp, and that was preferable to this alleged “pineapple” juice of health miracles, which was, of course, fashioned with one hundred percent biodiverse botanicals from hidden mountain peaks in remote rainforests in the Orient and also some mushrooms. Which tasted like they were grown in the ass crack of a rotting corpse. The juice was so bad that the man apologized, like he knew how gross it was before I tried it and he let me try it anyway, which is so wrong. He should’ve warned me.

So I decided that I immediately needed to stop everything I was doing and use pizza with onions all over it as a palate cleanser. Plus my kid was complaining that she was going to starve to death in agony even though she had two waffles for breakfast an hour earlier, and then there was my husband who just sincerely enjoys the culinary offerings at Costco, I think.

You might remember from my book that my husband really loves Costco because he is practical and sensible, and I don’t because I’m not, which I think we’ve long since established.

And off to the “food court” we headed. Food Court is such a misnomer in this case that it’s almost offensive. When I think of FOOD COURT my mind goes to the mall where there is a Chinese place that sells Mount Trashmore sized piles of fried noodles in oil sauce, another place where you can get baked potatoes, a modified Chick-fil-a, and a bunch of places you’ve never heard of that are most likely owned by Israelis that sell things like both shitty falafels and really inauthentic, non-kosher, Philly Cheesesteaks at the same time (*note – my dad is Israeli and I have spent a lifetime eating shitty falafels and liking them so I have earned the right to say this).

That is a food court. Costco isn’t a food court because there is no variety of choices. It’s just…Costco. And hot dogs, chicken bakes, BBQ sandwiches, lots of thick, floppy pizza, and a chicken Caesar that no one in the history of Costco shopping ever gets — it’s just there as a token green thing. To eat a salad in a Costco is unpatriotic. That’s like something a Bernie Sanders supporter from the Bay Area might do (actually not, because the chicken would need to be vegan). Real Americans eat bad pizza and they like it because of guns and Jesus, and everyone knows Jesus loved bulk shopping and terrible food, as proven by the story about the loaves and fishes.

God help them, they DO try to create some ambience at the Costco “food court.” Take for instance the hot dog themed umbrellas over the little picnic tables. Why they need big red umbrellas over tables that are inside, I will never know. I guess they’re “festive.” Maybe they’re to protect customers from the fluorescent lights while they eat their chicken bakes. I have never seen anyone eat a chicken bake, by the way, and I haven’t been brave enough to take this step myself.

What even is a “chicken bake” for the love of God? I’m always suspicious of vaguely named food that doesn’t truly resemble actual food. Case in point: 7-11 used to sell a thing called a “bakery stick.” WTF is a bakery stick? I think it’s a chicken bake’s convenience store cousin. When food is vaguely named, it can literally be anything. Anything. That’s why I’m not eatin’ it, yo.

Pizza, however, can only be pizza. There are infinite variations on pizza, and even the worst ones aren’t truly that bad because any combination of cheese and carbs is bound to be pretty good. I mean, I don’t love admitting this, but I’ve enjoyed Tombstones on many occasions, and no I wasn’t even stoned. I just have a somewhat high tolerance for garbage food. Bring on the boxed mac and cheese, let’s get this party started!

My problem is with food guilt. I have a conscience when it comes to food and I suffer from severe low self-esteem when I eat uhealthy food. I go to yoga too much and when confronted with Costco pizza I start thinking things about how I am not honoring the temple of my body. I am giving my inner goddess acid reflux from eating this shit, and she doesn’t like it.

So I start justifying things in my head, and doing pointless weird stuff that I convince myself will make a difference, but it actually doesn’t. For instance, I will stare down at this ginormous slice of Costco pizza and tell myself, well at least I didn’t get the pepperoni. Right? Because animal rights, and calories from fat. So the plain cheese is HEALTHY and GOOD FOR THE EARTH. A slice of Costco pizza is roughly the size of a manta ray’s wing and a good inch thick. I think the sign said it had 780 calories, which, in my opinion, may as well be 10,827 calories, so I start to try and reduce the calories.

I will not eat the crust. Yeah, I said that. True confession: I am so neurotic that I peel the cheese off pizza and just eat that because I’ve convinced myself that that is actually better for me (it’s not, technically). But it makes me feel a little better about my disgusting lifestyle choices. And I can always go to the farmer’s market tomorrow and stroll around in a sundress with a wicker basket slung over my arm, right?

Whether you’re eat a hot dog, pizza, a chicken bake, or the mysterious Caesar, Costco offers a fascinating condiment option not found ANYWHERE ELSE. This is where things get interesting, folks. This is where the Costco dining experience truly goes next level.

COSTCO HAS MAGICAL ONIONS.

Check them out:

There is a special machine at the Costco Food Court that dispenses infinite amounts of fresh, diced onions. They don’t have this thing anywhere else that I’ve ever seen, and it’s obviously a big deal because they have to padlock it. If the onions were regular (as in unmagical) they could just leave it open. I’m assuming. Because I’m fairly confident that onion theft isn’t a serious problem faced by warehouse superstores, so why else would they have to lock it?

It’s not as if there are packs of thieves sneaking into Costco, totally bypassing the $23,000.00 diamond earrings and all the glitzy electronics and running out with their arms full of diced onions.

I also imagine that getting to be the keeper of the onion key is a really high honor for Costco employees. Like a promotion. Like, you have really made it at Costco if you get to be the keeper of the onion key. But God forbid someone would lose it. I can’t even imagine. (YOU HAD ONE JOB! AND YOU LOST THE ONION KEY! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO NOW??)

Maybe Jim Sinegal himself holds the one master key to all the Costco onion machines and when they need to refill them he has to fly in on his fancy private jet and unlock the onion box and refill the magical onions, and that’s basically all he does as CEO of Costco – open onion boxes all day.

It’s important to note that I hate onions with a passion. I cannot stand onions, especially raw chunky ones. When confronted with raw chunky onions I turn into a four year old. Yet, knowing that I despise onions, I still decided to try some on the cheese layer that I peeled off my pizza crust for health reasons. It was all because of the padlock. I needed to know why these onions were so special.

The onions were not special. They were horrible. And they ruined my cheese. So I immediately scraped them all off, except they had already contaminated my cheese layer with their evil onion juice flavor, so all hope was essentially lost. There was nothing left to do except get a refill on my Diet Pepsi and eat the rest of my daughter’s slice of pizza and give up on life.

Besides, I still needed razor blades, which means that I had to go take out a line of credit, and actually try to find the razor blades, which are apparently so valuable that I’m pretty sure they keep them in a glass case with the engagement rings. I was there for about three more hours. I got hungry again, but I decided to eat at home this time. Sorry, Costco.

My family doesn’t live in a very big house. I’ve always been a cottage person and I prefer a house with less square footage to clean. Living in a little house, though, means not accumulating a lot of clutter, and accumulating a lot of clutter is basically the entire definition of having a child.

On a regular basis, I have to face the daunting task of getting rid of my daughter’s old stuff. If I didn’t, we’d probably be buried alive, but letting go of her outgrown toys and clothes, tattered books, and even used nursery furniture turns me into an emotional wreck. When I saw her crib in pieces on the bulk trash pile, I wanted to throw myself, keening and wailing, on top of its remains like a grieving widow on a coffin in a southern gothic novel (we had to throw it away instead of donating, because it was cracked and unsafe).

I realized that whenever I’m about to purge another round of outgrown stuff, that I need to brace myself and mentally prepare, because I will go through these five stages of grief every single time:

1. Denial – There is no way that I could possibly be the mother of a six year old. It’s simply not true. This child is still a baby. I swear, I just had her, like, yesterday. No way is she forty-three inches tall. That’s ridiculous, and of course she still fits in this adorable size two romper with the big, ruffly butt. I’ll keep it a little longer. Like five more years.

2. Anger – This is insane! How do we have so much crap in this house? This is our parents’ fault. Our extended family is messing up my house because they are too generous and well-meaning! So help me I am cussing out the next parent who gives my kid a goody bag at a birthday party. I can’t live like this with all this clutter. None of this garbage brings me joy! I’m like Marie Kondo. Bring me a trash bag immediately because I am throwing everything away and we are going to live in a spare, modern house with a single sea shell as decoration. If I see another stuffed animal I am going to tear its head off and rip out its heart of batting with my bare hands. Someone please make me a margarita. Now!

3. Depression – Otherwise known as the part where I completely lose it while sitting on my daughter’s bedroom floor holding a small stuffed elephant that chimes “Rock-a-Bye Baby.” I have sobbed over laundry baskets of impossibly tiny onesies, and I have mourned the loss of moldy bath toys. In this stage, I can also be found anthropomorphizing all the stuffed animals, which I blame squarely on The Velveteen Rabbit. That book caused me lasting psychological damage and if I ever become a stuffed animal hoarder you will know why. Ditto for the Island of Misfit Toys in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. It feels cruel to toss a doll baby because her eye fell out, she’s missing an arm, and because your two-year old cut off all of her hair and drew on her face with a sharpie. I just feel like it’s mean not to consider the feelings of toys with faces. Now I’m weeping again because I just thought of Toy Story 3 and I feel like the worst villain of all time.

4. Bargaining – During this stage, I try to convince myself that I shouldn’t get rid of anything because of the .00001 percent chance that I might change my mind about having any more children and I may actually end up needing this bouncer, this ripped play yard, and that stained high chair, and if I don’t keep all this junk one day I might seriously regret it because what if I accidentally get pregnant? Then what? There’s also the possibility that if I hold on to all of these incredibly adorable, sentimental items that one day they just might be collector’s items, and I don’t want to ruin my chances of going on Antique Roadshow and having the host tell me that this Peppa Pig playset is now worth fifty-thousand British Pounds. Wait, wait, I’ll do ANYTHING if my daughter could just stay cute and sweet and innocent and keep all these lovely little figurines forever!!!

5. Acceptance – Finally (usually when I can see the floor and the shelves of the closet again) I find my inner peace. All is well. I know I am doing the right thing by donating so many wonderful and useful items to families in need. My house will be clean and relatively clutter free (at least until the next birthday). I am fine with the fact that my daughter is growing up and is no longer interested in Daniel Tiger (even though I still am) and everything is going to be okay, even though my six year old just asked me for a cell phone and sounded exactly like a teenager.

Fellow parents, we can do this. We can let go of our kids’ old things. We are not alone in the agony this causes, nor in the relief we feel when we are finally rid of the sixty-thousand Beanie Babies that clogged our closets. All we have to do is move through each stage at our own pace, taking time to stay present with the puzzles missing pieces, and the old bottle sterilizer that is still in the box. We can rid ourselves of breast pumps, newborn dresses, and the teddy bear we got at our baby showers, if we remember that we are strong, we have support, and if all else fails imagine the inner peace we will feel at not having to listen to any of those horrible beeping, singing, chiming, electronic baby toys ever again.

If you liked this article, you'll love my memoir THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL LIFE available everywhere. Order it online at any of these links.

I always say "Thank God we didn't have Facebook when I was a teenager!"

If we had, this is what my statuses would've looked like:

80s Kid: I think I haven’t seen my mom in a week. She works all day, so I get off the bus, let myself in the house with the key I wear on a shoelace around my neck, make one of her Lean Cuisines (I’m really good at boiling those bags and cutting them open without burning myself). Can someone tell me why the beef looks iridescent, though? Then after work she goes to Aerobics, and by the time she gets home, I’m usually asleep.

80s Kid: The dream of my entire life is to have a clear phone in my room beside my canopy bed, and I want to have my own number so mom won’t stop picking up, and I want call waiting so it’s never busy.

80s Kid: I’m so sad because I fell at the roller rink and ripped my pin striped, Calvin Klein jeans and it was right before couple’s skate when “Break My Stride” was on. Not to mention, my mom won’t buy me my own skates so I must suffer the humiliation of tan and orange rental skates.

80s Kid: Everything about Pretty in Pink was perfect until the end when Andi wore a prom dress that looked like something my grandma would wear to a wedding.

80s Kid: After reading The Girl With the Silver Eyes I can’t stop trying to move stuff with my mind.

80s Kid: Listened to Alphaville’s “Forever Young” sixteen times. Had to keep stopping the tape, then rewinding it, and then the worst happened. The tape got tangled up in my cassette player and I had to try to wind it back up with a pencil and it didn’t work, so I think I’m going to join Columbia Record House so I can get ten new tapes for a penny.

80s Kid: I live for liquid crystals in my Lisa Frank sticker book.

80s Kid: Reading Deenie taught me that it’s totally normal to hide a dog-eared copy of Forever in between the mattress and box spring on my bed.

80s Kid: My dad is dating a woman named Sheena who looks like Sandy at the end of Grease.

80s Kid: I used up a whole bottle of Paul Mitchell spritz and my bangs are still flat and now I smell like a gigantic grape lollipop wearing high top, pink reeboks and clear braces. I think I need more mousse.

80s Kid: My dad bought me a neon flamingo for my bedroom because he made a bunch of money on junk bonds and feels guilty for not spending any time with me. It reminds me of something they’d sell in the store on the new episodes of The Facts of Life where they’re all in college and there’s no Mrs. Garrett and they have her weird sister instead. What are they doing to do when they graduate college??

80s Kid: I played Oregon Trail on my Apple II E for four hours straight and died of dysentery at least twenty times, so I decided to play Qbert on my Atari instead.

80s Kid: You know what’s going to be so weird? When it’s 1989 and that means it’s only ten years away from being 1999 like the Prince song. Whoa.

80s Kid: Today I wore three Izod polos under a Benetton rugby shirt and I flipped up all four collars at once. I also wore three Swatches and nineteen friendship bracelets, and my socks were so big you could barely see my Keds, and for once I got the rolled up cuffs just right on my pegged jeans. I felt so good about myself.

80s Kid: My dad got a beeper. It was really aggravating. Last weekend when I was visiting him he took me to Bennigans to eat mozzarella sticks (how do they FRY CHEESE??) and he had to keep getting up to use the payphone so he could call Sheena. It made me really want a wine cooler. Not that I’ve ever had one, but the Bartles & James commercial makes them look so good. He told me Sheena really likes Def Leppard, but I was not impressed.

80s Kid: I’m going to be a vegetarian because Meat is Murder and I want to be exactly like Morrissey because he is a god and he gets me so I ate frozen French fries for dinner with a ring ding and some Hi-C Peach. I’m also going to wear black on the outside because black is how I feel on the inside. Do Oriental ramen noodles count as meat? What is Oriental made out of anyway?

80s Kid: I am so sad. I lost my favorite charm on my charm necklace. It was the frying pan with sunny-side up eggs in it. Oh well, at least it wasn’t the tiny abacus.

80s Kid: I’m so embarrassed. My mom found my diary and opened it even though it was a real lock with a little key and now she knows that I’m in love with Jason Bateman on Silver Spoons instead of Ricky Schroeder. Does this mean I’m into bad boys?

80s Kid: My gigantic, black lace bow keeps flopping into my eyes and getting in my electric blue mascara. While I’m at it, this crinoline that I’m wearing as a skirt is itchy, and my grandma is mad that I’m wearing her rosary as a necklace, but how else am I supposed to “Get Into the Groove?”

80s Kid: I’m going to drink a gallon of Pepsi Free on Sunday night so I have enough energy to stay up and watch 120 Minutes on MTV, and I’m praying they play Public Image Limited.

80s Kid: Where’s the Beef?

80s Kid: This kid at school in a Hawaiian shirt, Ray Bans, and a skinny tie won’t stop imitating Max Headroom, and passing me notes in Home Ec that he folds into little triangle footballs, and I just want to tell him to stop trying so hard. He will never be Tom Cruise in Risky Business, or Ferris Beuller.

80s Kid: I'm so excited. I recorded "Take On Me" onto a blank tape off the radio with my boom box and I got the whole thing! I didn't cut off the first part or anything!

80s Kid: The entire cast of Stand by Me. Swoon. The greatest movie ever made in the history of film. I can’t wait til it comes out on video next year and I am going to ask my dad to please buy me a VCR so I can rent it from the new video place in town (what is in that back room there anyway?) and watch it over and over for three days until I have to return it. Be kind rewind.

80s Kid: I am out of Bonne Belle Heaven Scent. I think I want to try a more sophisticated, adult perfume now. Like Giorgio, Obsession, Lauren, or Poison. I am obsessed with Poison. The perfume, not the band. Glam rock is gross because I am New Wave. I officially don’t like anything on the MTV Top 20 Video Countdown unless it’s U2.

80s Kid: I really think we need to free Nelson Mandela and tear down the Berlin Wall. I feel really strongly about this. I cry when I hear 99 Luftballons. I hope the Russians don’t nuke us.

80s Kid: Begging my mom to get me a high-collared, full length, lace Jessica McClintock dress for homecoming and I am going to wear it with Capezios. I’m going to get a new spiral perm and maybe henna my hair too. Oh my God I am so excited. I want to slow dance at arm’s length with a boy in the high school gym to “Time After Time.”

80s Kid: I was so freaked out when Belinda Carlisle left the Go-Gos to go solo but “Heaven is a Place on Earth” is the best song in the whole world.

80s Kid: I want my life to be exactly like a John Hughes movie combined with a Cameron Crowe movie.

Hey Everyone! If you liked this post make sure to check out my memoir THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL LIFE available to everyone, everywhere!

If 70s Moms Had Blogs

This morning I got up and Jennifer and Kimberly were eating Pop Rocks in front of the TV set watching Captain Kangaroo while Matt was already out in the back yard with a glass of Tang. I sat down and had a cigarette. I really wanted to watch my programs but I didn't want to have to get up and change the channel or mess with the antenna to get it to come in clear, so I let the girls continue until I was done my cigarette. I made sure to tell them not to drink any Pepsi for a couple hours so the Pop Rocks wouldn't explode in their stomachs. That happened to some kid on TV, you know.

Then I went into the kitchen and poured them all bowls of Apple Jacks while I had my coffee with sweet n low and another cigarette. Halfway through my smoke, I went and got the baby, changed its Pamper and made it a bottle of formula. Then I put it in the walker so I could vacuum in peace while the other three kids went outside.

About an hour later Matt came back crying that Mrs. Johnson had spanked him because he was throwing rocks at cars.

"Good," I told him, "I hope you learned your lesson. If I hear of you doing that again I'm going to bust your ass too, so you got lucky this time that you only got one whipping."

Then I sent him back outside while I continued to clean.

Little while later, here come the girls saying they're hot because it's 80 degrees and sunny. I gave them some more red Kool-Aid and told them if they were hot to stay in the shade and stop whining about it.

That gave me the idea to lay out, so I covered myself in baby oil and positioned my plastic chaise lounge right in direct sunlight. I put the baby in the playpen with some blocks while I cracked open a Tab and listened to some Neil Sedaka and Captain and Tenille on my portable radio. Don't worry, I put a bonnet on the baby since she doesn't have hair yet.

Matt had been down at the lake fishing with all the other four year olds and he came back yelling that he had a fishhook caught in his lip so I had to get the pliers and cut it out for him. I gave him some ice, told him to stop crying and sent him back to the lake to fish some more.

Around noon the kids all came back from wherever they were and I made them fried baloney sandwiches on Wonder Bread with some tasty-kakes for dessert. After that we had to go grocery shopping so I put the three older ones in the back of the station wagon and set the baby on the front seat and off we went.

I decided I needed another cigarette when we were in the car, so I lit one up and I've discovered that if you only crack the window instead of rolling it down that the smoke ventilates much better, so I have no idea why the kids were coughing and fussing for me to roll the window all the way down. They were just being dramatic, I swear. Naturally I didn't listen to them.

Bill's going to be so mad at me. I spent an entire $27.00 at the grocery store this week. Prices are so high these days. It's just ridiculous. I don't know how the A&P is going to stay in business. I bet Gerald Ford has something to do with this. Or the Russians.

I sent the kids back outside again. This time I made the girls take the baby with them, which was fine because they were just going into the woods to play. Gave me some time to watch The Edge of Night in peace.

I'm planning a big night out with Bill this weekend for our anniversary. I thought maybe we'd go have fondue, drink some Harvey Wallbangers and go to a disco. I called the eleven year old down the street and told her we'd pay her three whole dollars to babysit all night and not to worry if the baby woke up and cried. I told her if you ignore it, the baby will eventually stop crying and go back to sleep, so just turn the record player up louder or something and that if the other three want to stay up late and watch television, it's okay but make them go to bed after Carol Burnett goes off and if they want some Jiffy Pop, that's fine too. They know how to make it themselves.

Hilda called while I was making dinner (cube steaks and crinkle fries) and we got to talking about playing cards and then she said she liked Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore better than The Godfather II and I had to agree with her. I told her they ought to make a TV show after Alice. She said it would never work. I told her I had to get off the phone because I needed to mix up my Brandy Alexander and the phone cord didn't reach all the way to the liquor cabinet.

Fed the kids and Bill dinner. Then Bill went off to Bob's for poker night and the girls all came over here to play Gin Rummy with me. We had some Chex Mix and Linda brought over her famous pineapple upside down cake, which we had with Sanka. We all talked about what we were going to do for the bicentennial and then Debbie started going on and on about how she likes this Jimmy Carter guy from Georgia for President and she and Doris got into an argument because Doris is a Republican. The kids tried to peek out of their rooms, where I'd put them for the evening, but I yelled at them and told them it was grown-up time and to keep playing Candyland and Lincoln Logs until they fell asleep. I asked Debbie what color she thought I ought to redo the kitchen in - harvest gold or avocado green and she said she thought rust or Colonial blue would be even prettier. Good lord. Too many choices!

After the girls left I had to clean up the kitchen. Thank God for Corelle ware because I keep dropping coffee cups in the sink. This stuff just will not break, I tell you! It's a miracle. I mixed up another pitcher of Tang for breakfast, went and filed my nails into long, pointy ovals and then painted them a new shade called "Shimmering Ecru." When they dried I put on a polyester negligee, touched up my blue eyeshadow and sprayed my hair. Then I added a spritz of Charlie. I feel like celebrating our anniversary a little early! I have an IUD now after all. I'm not really worried about hemorrhaging or getting an infection from it. It's just a bunch of hype like that whole thalidomide scare. I knew lots of women ten years ago who took that and only one of their kids was born with a weird hand. She's not very crippled from it though. The kids in school tease her but middle schoolers are like that and it will build character.

Anyway, I think I'll have a cigarette and read some of Waiting for Mr. Goodbar. Maybe I'll put on a Streisand record until Bill gets home.

Good night!

Please Pre-order my memoir THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL LIFE, out June 7th, by clicking on any of the links below!

The great physicists may have discovered gravity, the theory of relativity and that whole thing about an object in motion, but they've left out one of the most reliable laws of the universe.

If you go out looking like shit you will see someone you know.

And the degree to which you look like shit will determine how much you don't want to see the person you're about to run into.

For example, if you run into Walgreens with your greasy hair wound up in a pony tail holder, messy bun catastrophe and an underground zit on your nose that you've been trying in vain to pop all day until you look like you're about to guide a sleigh through fog on Christmas Eve, you WILL see your ex-boyfriend and his gorgeous, skinny, and probably Brazilian new wife and you WILL be holding a box of super-absorbency tampons.

I hate seeing people I know in public. Even if I adore you, I will still be uncomfortable seeing you in the grocery store. I can't tell you how many times I have avoided people that I genuinely like because I don't want to make small talk on a street corner. There are two reasons for this. One is that I don't like being caught off guard and two is that I am so socially inept that I need a lot of mental preparation before conversing or I will probably say or do something awkward and inappropriate. And I guess three is that I probably look like shit.

Case in point, last week I got bored and went to the mall for God knows what reason, and I kid you not, I must have seen pretty much everyone that I know there. You cannot imagine how bad I looked. No makeup, dirty hair, muffin top jeans, crappy tee shirt. I looked like I should have been working on a car engine, but no, there I was, shopping. Naturally, everyone that I saw looked fabulous and had combed their hair before they left the house. I bet everyone who saw me thought the same thing:

"Thank God she's shopping. Maybe she'll get some new clothes and while she's at it, how about a stop at the MAC counter for a makeover. Lord have mercy."

My poor sister has one of the worst seeing your ex out in public stories of all time.

She ran into the guy she lost her virginity to, who is now grown up, hot and successful, at a restaurant. She was two months post-partum, and well, that's about all I need to say. She was nursing in public, then the baby began to scream and I mean SCREAM, because it knew of course that her ex had just walked in, because babies are evil like that. Then the baby shit and spit up and at that time the ex decided to come over and talk to my poor sister, whose boob was practically lying in her pasta bowl and of course she hadn't lost the baby weight or had time to touch up her roots and forget trying to put makeup on. There was nothing nice about this situation and what made it worse was that the ex was there with his new wife who was stunning and 85 pounds and had a mane of hair that looked like something out of a Pantene commercial and you could just hear her thinking "Wow, he took HER virginity? He must have felt sorry for her."

The worst is unexpectedly running into someone with whom you've had sex or been intimate.

All I wanted was a god damned burrito, but right when I walked in the door who do I see but the Toe Sucker. The Toe Sucker was this guy I briefly dated forever ago, but whom I can never forget, for obvious reasons. I didn't have sex with him, but we did hook up, as they say, a few times and although he was kind of nice, we just weren't a good match (I don't like to suck toes). But there he was hovering open mouthed over a steak burrito as if it were a freshly pedicured foot and he too was there with his new lover, who was definitely prettier than me (aren't they always?) and all I could think about was that he was probably going to go home and lick her from her ears to her ankles, so before he could even say hello, which he was about to, I suddenly lost my appetite, turned and walked right out.

People probably think I'm unfriendly. I'm not. I just can't handle chatting in Publix with people who've seen me naked and there's nothing worse than standing there with the new wife glaring at you when you can't get stop thinking "I fucked your husband." Unless you hate her and then it's a little fun. Not that this has happened to me. Ahem. I can just imagine it.

I was even a little unnerved at seeing my doctor in yoga class, although it was somewhat of a comfort in case I happened to drop dead, which is a likely scenario and it was also a little comforting knowing that your doctor can bust out a bad ass hand stand. But still. This man has held my uterus. He's had more of his hand up my vagina than my husband. I don't want him judging my downward facing dog, ya know?

Once I ran into a guy who had truly, deeply done me wrong. He led me on with lies, promised to call, never did, gave me the run around after seducing me when I was really innocent. He knew that I had been badly hurt by other men and willfully chose to add himself to the already long list of shitty guys in my life. Hell holds a special place for men who treat girls like this. One day I would like to be the dungeon master in charge of this circle of the Inferno. Anyway, when I encountered him again a few years later, it was at the country club where I worked and he was on his way to his rehearsal dinner and wedding (I still cannot believe someone married him), because this is my life and this is the kind of crap that happens to me. So alarmed was I about seeing this fool, that I took my lunch break and went and bought a new shirt. I don't even think he recognized me when he saw me but at least he wasn't all like, oh look I'm getting married and there goes some girl in a shirt she spilled coffee all over this morning.

And if you happen to run into an ex in, say, I don't know, Target, when you look like total hell, you can swiftly hide in the makeup department and try on a few samples to spiff yourself up. I'm not, of course, saying that this has actually happened to me, again. I'm just saying that maybe if it did happen, maybe you could do that. Even though they kind of discourage you from opening up the makeup in the Target cosmetics department.

"IT'S AN EMERGENCY! MY EX IS HERE WITH HIS NEW GIRLFRIEND!" I said. I mean, I WOULD say were I ever in that unfortunate situation. I like to think they'd understand because haven't we all been there? No? We haven't? It's just me?

So if you see me out and I flee, please know it's not because I don't like you, but probably because I like you a lot, or I once liked you very much or maybe even once I loved you. It is because I want you to like me and if you saw me or talked to me, maybe deep down I fear you wouldn't.

My memoir THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL LIFE is out on June 7th. Preorder it now at any of the links below.

Last Christmas my second younger sister got me a gift card to Red Lobster, and it has been burning a hole in my pocket ever since. I don’t know about you, but I am one of those people who will keep gift cards for all eternity. I don’t know why I hold on to them. I think I keep feeling like I need to save them for a special occasion, or I just like “having” them and I feel like if I use them then I don’t get to “have” them anymore. It makes no sense.

You know what else makes no sense? That a freaking lyric in a Beyoncé song could increase Red Lobster’s sales 33% in one weekend.

I’m not even kidding you. And worse? The song sucks. It sucks hard. You will never hear it on the radio because it is just God awful terrible. I will say, in its defense however, that the video for “Formation” is a true work of art and that the words to the song are sort of great in places. It’s just the music that is awful. But anyway…

In the song “Formation” Beyoncé kind of offhandedly remarks that “When he f&#@s me good I take his ass to Red Lobster.” She even repeats it. She says she does this because she slays. Then she says that if he hits it right he can ride in her helicopter. To Red Lobster? Come on. Red Lobsters do not have helipads on their roofs, which proves how clueless she is.

Here is the part where I need to grab Beyoncé by the arm and drag her off to the side and give her a good talking to.

First off, Beyoncé, you do not eat at Red Lobster. Ever. I cannot imagine any situation where you have or would ever set foot in a Red Lobster. So I am calling serious bullshit on you. This is Gwyneth Paltrow levels of bullshit right here. No one believes that you eat at Red Lobster just like no one believes that Gwyneth Paltrow eats pasta carbonara.

Anyone with any sense knows that both of y’all (Bey and G) live in pristine bubbles of wealth, beauty, celebrity and privilege. You have ALL the privilege, which means that you have an entire staff dedicated to assisting you with eating. You literally pay people to help you eat — nutritionists, dieticians, chefs, servers, personal assistants etc. I also know for a fact that Beyoncé is a vegan at least most of the time, because she was very public about it and also had some kind of a partnership with her “life coach” (for real) in some kind of vegan meal delivery diet service thing. Did you hear me? VEGAN. That means NO animal products. I’m pretty sure the only thing that’s vegan at Red Lobster is the ketchup, which is not organic nor stewed from heirloom tomatoes grown in Michelle Obama’s magical garden at the White House, which is the only sort of ketchup I can imagine Beyoncé actually eating.

I feel like Beyoncé threw in that Red Lobster reference because she’s trying to relate to the “common” woman, but Beyoncé is the farthest thing on earth from an everywoman, so I can’t even with this nonsense, even though thousands of other people apparently CAN even with it.

Second, Beyoncé, we need to talk about rewarding men for good sex. Umm no. Stop it. This makes you look needy. Men do not like needy women. That’s one of the most basic of basic rules of male/female romantic relationships. You cannot ever look needy and you can’t text back immediately. I don’t even want to think about Beyoncé texting a man back immediately. It ruins everything I want to believe about you. Women like me text back immediately, which is pathetic. Women like you wait three or four days and forget you even got a text meanwhile the guy is halfway suicidal with longing. NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND.

Rewarding a man for good sex by taking him out to dinner sounds like the worst idea of all time. I think Beyoncé is trying to subvert longstanding and outdated gender roles. I think she is trying to take upon herself the dominant role in the relationship and claim that this is a bold, badass feminist move and that she is trying to exert some kind of control here.

Yeah, no. This sounds good on paper, but in real life this shit is never ever ever going to fly and is a bad idea for about 25 good reasons. I can hear Jay-Z snickering about it right now, in fact. You want to know what would happen if you were not Beyoncé and tried to pull this shit in real life? I will tell you. You’d be out sixty bucks or more, your man would never call your sorry ass again and he’d be high-fiving all of his friends and telling them how he was such a baller that he could make a bitch buy him some crab legs. You don’t ever want to be that kind of a girl.

My take on this, based on a lot of actual life experience, is that some gender roles can successfully be reversed, but this is not one of them. When it comes to dating I prefer to remain in the Mad Men era. It’s kind of a matter of pride.

I would die before I would ever take a man out to dinner (at Red Lobster no less) for f&*ing me right. In my mind, I am such a prize that the reward for hitting it good is that he got to hit it with me at all. The act itself is its own reward. And trust me, I am no Beyoncé over here. I am about as basic of a white girl as you can ever imagine and I still value myself enough to know that I do not have to buy a man’s affections with Endless Shrimp.

But I was still curious about this whole Red Lobster phenomenon. Apparently A LOT of people were very enthusiastic about Beyoncé’s claims that Red Lobster is indeed an apt reward for mindblowing sex. It was such a big deal that humble Red Lobster was even trending on Twitter, God help us.

What was so good about Red Lobster, I wondered. I had to know.

Because, I gotta be honest with you, I have never once, ever, ever come even remotely close to crying out in the throes of passion:

“OH MY GOD THAT WAS AMAZING!! (pant, pant, sigh, moan) I NEED TO GET YOU SOME FRIED CLAM STRIPS IMMEDIATELY!”

Like, never.

So the other day, in order to satisfy my burning curiosity about this very important matter, I decided that I’d take my gift card and go my ass to Red Lobster and see what all the fuss was about. Perhaps I’d been missing out all along, I thought.

Thing is, I live in Florida on the beach and there is no dearth of really good places to get fresh, local seafood. There’s pretty much no need to ever go to Red Lobster if you live here, so naturally I haven’t gone, yet one still exists. I think it's here for old people and tourists who need something familiar and not local and scary. It has been here in the exact same place for my entire life. Such is the case with all Red Lobsters, am I right? Every Red Lobster you can think of offhand has been in the same location forever and that’s kind of saying something. Red Lobster has staying power. Red Lobster can last a long time, apparently, heh heh.

I didn’t want to go alone, and I felt like I should get the male perspective on this whole issue, so I dragged a hapless male friend along who I felt would appreciate the irony and also be willing to taste test some garbage food with me. I chose well. We met in the parking lot, which was inexplicably full at 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon, which you’d think would be completely dead, but no. The Red Lobster was jammin’. (Note: there was NOWHERE to land my helicopter.)

People really love Red Lobster. But why? And what is the connection between Red Lobster and sex?

I’ll just tell you right now that I still don’t get it. I don't think their old jingle "For the seafood LOVER in you" was a double entendre after all.

Red Lobster reminded me of visiting my grandmother’s house. It was spotlessly clean, smelled a little weird (not bad, just weird) and had wall to wall carpeting and a whole lot of paneling. Exactly like grandma’s house. I don’t know what kind of a freak you are, but my grandmother’s house is the last thing I would ever associate with arousal so I was immediately perplexed.

The Lobster is far more frumpy than sexy. Yet I forged onward.

I need to know something, though. Does anyone, HAS anyone ever in the history of Red Lobster, ever ordered one of the actual red lobsters from the tank up by the hostess stand? Or are those just token decorative lobsters that live out their lives as claw-bound props? I didn’t have the heart to order one. I have bad lobster karma already, but that is a story for another day.

I also have to say that I was really disappointed to find that there was not any current “Fest” going on. It seems like there is always a “Fest” at Red Lobster, yet the one time I go? There’s no damn fest. Such is my luck, and I remain fest-deprived. I didn’t see an “Endless” anything either. How can that even be?

So we forged onward. To a vinyl booth by a window where we were immediately given a basket of Cheddar Bay Biscuits, leading us to wonder where on a map we might locate the actual Cheddar Bay. My friend suggested that it was probably slightly north of Old Bay. We’ll go with that answer.

But these biscuits. Oh dear. The biscuits. Everything about these biscuits is so very right and so very wrong at once. Beyoncé would never eat them. They are nothing but gluten and casein bound in the holy union of butter, which is probably actually margarine and garlic powder. These biscuits are so legendary that I know someone who named her cat after them.

I liked the biscuits a lot, but I am not exactly hard to please when it comes to biscuits. Most biscuits are pretty wonderful. But were they wonderful enough to qualify as a reward for the best sex of all time? Well…no. Although if someone wanted to give me a Cheddar Bay biscuit for truly rocking his world, I’m not saying I would turn it down. And I’m also not saying that I wouldn’t be at least a little flattered. The biscuits? They slay.

My friend insisted that we needed to order an appetizer so we went with our server’s suggestion and got the sweet chili shrimp, which is straight up Red Lobster trying to be Nobu. I don’t want Red Lobster to be Nobu. Next they’ll be trying to make miso marinated black cod, for the love of everything good. The sweet chili shrimp, however, was not disgusting. I kinda liked it.

Nor was the coleslaw. My friend and I share a common fondness for coleslaw, of all things. Growing up my mom made coleslaw for every meal. She had several versions of it, and I liked them all. Coleslaw is just a part of my life (see my Chick-fil-a rant) and I have zero tolerance for crappy coleslaw. Red Lobster makes good coleslaw. I give credit where credit is due. It had no onions, nice crunch and celery seeds. Still, the coleslaw was not good enough to serve as the celebration for receiving multiple orgasms.

I wanted to order the most Red Lobster-ish of all things on the menu, so I went with the Admiral’s Feast, which is essentially a huge pile of fried. So I ate grease and breading for lunch dipped in bland cocktail sauce with a squeeze of lemon. I think I would eat gravel if it was breaded and fried and served with cocktail sauce.

My friend had to outdo me and order The Ultimate Feast, because I think he may be an overachiever. You ever see those videos of commercial fishing boats where they raise a huge net out of the ocean and dump it on the deck of the boat and it’s just scooped up every kind of sea life in its path? Like there are fish, but also dolphins, sea turtles, squids, shellfish, octopi, and everything else just flopping all over the place? That is essentially what the Ultimate Feast is. Just empty the whole net over a plate and soak it all in butter and serve. Red Lobster should probably be called Yellow Butter because that is a more fitting description of the place. I think I saw some sea snakes on his plate at one point and I’m pretty sure he was eating coelacanth scampi. There was probably even some coral on there. Seriously, the Ultimate Feast is like consuming an entire reef’s worth of oceanic biodiversity. With butter. And biscuits. And coleslaw. But it’s actually healthy because none of it was fried, unlike my food.

My meal was the epitome of fried. I think they breaded and fried the plate and utensils. I think I even had tempura iced tea (shit, I should’ve ordered lemonade). Paula Deen would’ve thought the level of fried had gone too far.

“If I don’t spend the whole night in the bathroom after eating this, I will know that God truly loves me,” I thought.

Somehow, I was just fine, and I will blame my dedication to portion control on my lack of gastrointestinal distress.

I don’t know about my friend, though. He ate all of his Ultimate feast, and about 25 biscuits, but we are not at the point in a friendship where I can comfortably ask if he later suffered from violent diarrhea (I am only like that with girls and millions of Internet strangers), and frankly, I don’t really want to know, so his digestive reaction to this meal will go undiscussed. I do hope he was okay.

When asked if his feast could be considered an apt reward for a stellar performance between the sheets, he did not have much of an answer, so I took his lack of response as a “No.” Maybe he was just embarrassed to admit the truth.

The verdict is that Red Lobster was massively underwhelming. It is by no means terrible. I was actually pleasantly surprised. Okay, I kind of even liked it, especially the coleslaw, but I am just too cool to want to admit that publically. If I die and go to heaven, I will get to eat those biscuits every day without ever gaining weight or getting stomach cramps and that will be paradise. Red Lobster overall, though, is kind of bland. I totally see why Beyoncé would need to carry hot sauce in her bag if hypothetically she were to eat there, which we have established she isn’t going to.

My visit to Red Lobster categorically failed to establish any logical link between its meals and sex, so the mystery remains along with the mystery of who Walt is (except that he is someone who loves fried shrimp). Was it good enough to take a man there after sex? Hell no. Not even if he did that thing with his hands and his mouth at the same time. Even if he was the greatest dirty talker in the history of dirty talking. Even if he had a you-know-what the size of a Chipotle burrito AND knew how to use it. So I still don’t get it. Am I simply just picky and snobbish? Could be.

Additionally, the food seemed to lack any possible aphrodisiac qualities, so that wasn’t it either. I didn’t hear any sort of outbursts in the dining room like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I didn’t see “Becky With the Good Hair” blowing anyone in the parking lot, although in all fairness, the majority of vehicles had heavily tinted windows so who knows what was really going on, but somehow RL felt like the antithesis of passion and the embodiment of the ordinary. The really ordinary.

Will I go back? No. Not unless my grandmother wants me to take her, in which case then of course, but I think she likes Olive Garden better.

My memoir THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL LIFE IS OUT ON JUNE 7TH! You can preorder it here!

1. I'm feeling a little down today. I know what would fix this. I need to go to HomeGoods immediately. A new table runner is the solution to EVERYTHING. Especially if it is seasonal, on clearance and only $7.99.

2. Would people think I was weird if I took a selfie in front of this sign and made it my profile pic on Facebook? Is that going too far?

3. My uncontrollable desire to completely redecorate every room of my home for every single season and holiday (even the ones they don't close school for) is officially validated. I have found my people. This is my tribe. HomeGoods gets me. I'm totally doing a leaf-themed tablescape for Arbor Day.

4. Life would be better if I bought six, jewel-toned Moroccan lanterns and hung them unevenly in the corner of my living room.

5. BUY ME THIS! I need a 6 foot tall metal chicken. Wait, is that Jenny Lawson's chicken? Where would someone put this? Where would I put this? My house is too small. I need to set my sights higher in life. I need to make enough money to be able to accommodate a 6 foot tall metal chicken. Obviously I am a loser.

6. Home Accents! What kind of accent do I want my home to have? British? Southern Belle? French? I've got it. I want my home to have an accent like people in old movies. I want my house to sound like Katherine Hepburn. I'm going to need a Murano Glass decanter set from that display over there immediately.

7. I cannot resist this pale pink, ceramic, teeny cake stand with a butterfly on it. Okay, but wait, who makes cakes that teeny?? Me. I should make teeny cakes. I bet there is a teeny cake pan in the cooking section. I will buy it immediately and become the kind of person who bakes teeny cakes and displays them on pink ceramic teeny cake stands.

9. Now they are playing all of my favorite soft-rock hits from the 80s. I may have to burst into song. "I-I Love to feel the rain in the summer ti-i-eeem!!" I used to LOVE this song. Please don't tell anyone.

10. HomeGoods be like "Your house stinks, yo. You don't have enough candles." Exactly. I pretty much need a color coordinated Yankee Candle in a discontinued fragrance from a line of limited edition veranda daydreams scents that flopped five years ago. Whoa, they are only $12.99. These things go for at least thirty bucks a candle in the real store. Watch me fill this cart up right now.

11. I need to accept the fact that I am definitely turning into my grandmother and that it's okay to love bunches of polyester peonies in a vase of hardened polyurethane that is supposed to look like real flowers in actual water, except doesn't.

12. I'd like to offer my condolences to these seahorses at this very difficult time.

13. WHAT IS WRONG WITH THIS F#@#$ING CART? Good lord, HomeGoods, I love you but could you please get carts that can actually fit that 24 x 48 inch canvas print of Marilyn Monroe that everyone had back in college, plus that sisal rug that I desperately need for my Florida room? And while we're at it, could we please make it so that the wheels don't lock up as soon as they get within twenty feet of the door, so that the whole cart jerks to a violent stop mid-aisle causing me to get whiplash?

14. P.S. How do you expect me to buy all of these wonderful things and get them through the parking lot and into my car if I can't take this ever-loving cart OUT OF THE FREAKING STORE??

15. HOLY CRAP. I need a 7 foot, foam lighthouse to go with my 6 foot metal chicken. Life is now complete.

16. This stuff is not tacky at all. Said no one ever. Except my mom. My mom thinks this is very classy. So does yours.

17. I want nachos. This thought has nothing to do with HomeGoods. I just always want nachos.

18. There is literally nowhere else on earth where you can buy a birch stick lightly dusted in gold glitter that looks like some kind of abandoned kindergarten Christmas craft project, for $7.99.

19. Whatever this thing is, I believe with all of my heart that I could make it. Excuse me while I leave and go to the art store where I will purchase $79.87 worth of supplies only to get frustrated and find that, in fact, I cannot make this myself, so I will now go back to HomeGoods to buy it for $12.99 which I should have done in the first place, except now it is gone.

20. I came here to get a new shower curtain liner. But I decided that I needed a chalkboard kitchen menu, a cat scratching post, a knock-off Vera Bradley, insulated, cloth lunchbox, a Slap Chop, two empanada presses, some gourmet popcorn, and a cute set of birthday party invitations even though I am not having a birthday party. I forgot the shower curtain liner.

21. Every single one of these things would be absolutely spectacularly perfect in my elegantly appointed, New England, shingle-style beach cottage in Newport, Rhode Island where I drink Southsides and eat lobster rolls and wear linen dresses and straw hats and have clambakes on my own private beach. That I do not have. Because this is my fantasy life. This is not real. So I should leave this aisle with its driftwood sculptures and iron crabs and spray-painted bunches of coral, and nurse my broken heart because I cannot purchase this rustic clapboard painting of a whale.

22. How old is this food? Like, really? Because I love this packaging that suggests that this pineapple jalapeno gooseberry marmalade is actually British, possibly royal, and therefore eaten by the Duchess of Cambridge on her scones at tea time, which makes me kind of have to have it too. Along with these giant, sundried tomato pasta tubes, 6-pack of artisan root beer, and this little bag of heirloom quinoa that is definitely not any of the brands they sell at Whole Foods. Also I should get that tagine masala spice blend because it is in a cool bottle, and I think I need ALL the coffee syrups so I can be like a discount version of Starbucks in my own home and speaking of 'Bucks, there is a bag of 2011 Thanksgiving Blend for four dollars. MINE!

24. So, is this basically just T.J. Maxx without all the Willi Smith clothing?

25. Do you think if I replaced all of my dying houseplants with plastic succulents that anyone would notice?

26. I will not buy any of these things in the evil maze of temptation that is this checkout line. No matter how wonderful they are. MUST. RESIST. Oh what the hell, I could really a wheatgrass sprouter and some inspirational coasters.

27. HomeGoods, I love you so much.

My memoir THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL LIFE comes out on June 7th. Preorder it at the links below!

I tell everyone about the first time. That’s because it’s a funny story and I need to make people laugh. But what I have never told anyone is about the second time when you told me I liked it too much and I was too intense and it was weird, and when you said those things it was exactly like when I’d watch my mother clamp the lid closed on the pressure cooker. I did that to myself. I am still closed and whatever is inside of me is still not done even though the pressure is sometimes unbearable.

You carried me fourteen city blocks across a summer dusk and I was crying and covered in blood. I even had blood between my toes and my blood got all over you and so did my snot from crying but you never said a word and you took me home and still never said a word. It was from you that I learned to be quiet in the presence of another’s grief. When I stopped calling, it was not for the reasons you think, which some people say were obvious. Don’t listen to them. I stopped calling because you saw me like that.

Everyone always thinks it is them I am writing about. I am never writing about anyone even when I am always writing about you.

Eighteen times I fold a post-it with your name on it before I stuff it in the cracks of the Western Wall and pray to God to make me forget you, which works. Years later you find me on Facebook and you have three kids and a shitty job and the same wife and you have aged so badly that you look like Lou Reed, and basically no one aspires to look like Lou Reed no matter how talented he was, so I give thanks for answered prayers.

If I could just stop falling for guys purely because they like cats, that would be perfect, okay? Thanks. Also, remind me that good taste in music is in no way an indicator of decent husband material because it is not. I should probably change my MO and start looking for guys who like Celine Dion.

I am like a can of soup. The vacant spaces inside of me are filled with all the letters of the alphabet repeated over and over again. Here is something I do not like to admit to myself at all: I liked your name and its spelling and the way the letters are shaped so once I even saw it spelled out in a tangle of oak branches. And I know I am only finding these things because I want to look for them, but I took this as a sign anyway. Later that night when you called me I decided that finally hearing from you had something to do with the tree.

Girls don’t like this. I don’t like this. Who made you think we did? I know who it was. Someone who pretended that she loved it so you’d love her. I want to hunt this girl down and give her a piece of my mind because no girl wants someone to do this to her, except she is me and right this second I am pretending to love it so that you will love me even though I hate what you are doing. That you will never love me is more painful than your dry fingers and sharp nails anyway, so who even cares?

Hand to God, I am shocked that I have never seen you on the news for a double homicide.

Your wife is not as pretty as me. She wasn’t back then either, before she became your wife. I have always been the prettier one, and we aren’t talking about a subtle difference here, or a matter of taste. By everyone’s standards, I am significantly more attractive than your wife, which is pointless because you married her over me regardless. I would’ve said yes, for the record, if you’d asked me instead. I guess you know that, but that’s not the point. The point is that I never felt pretty and I think she did.

That I did not go to prom with you was a very poor choice on my behalf, but I have always lacked good sense when it comes to these things. Look, I need you to know that I never forgot you, that you were the first boy who ever brought me flowers and they were daffodils and you bought them at a school fundraiser. I need you to know that I took care of them as per the instructions on the card and that they bloomed and that I kept them long after they dried up and the water turned to mold and evaporated, and I kept them because even at fourteen, I knew intuitively that I was going to have the kind of life where daffodils would be rare.

Who dumps someone over a payphone from the airport when they are on their layover on their way to see you? You couldn’t have told me before the first leg of my trip? For Christ’s sakes. Do you know how annoying and expensive it was to change my flight? Do you know how hard I cried on that prop plane back to Albany? Probably. But what you don’t know, is that on that night I cursed you, because you straight up did me wrong and you deserved to be cursed. I like to think that this is why you grew up to be so ugly, because seriously, when I was with you, you were actually hot. Now? Ugh.

I am intelligent and you are a know-it-all. These are not the same thing, however, I believe that you are secretly insecure and so when you try to teach me about things I already know about (more than you, actually) I smile and let you think you're the smart one.

When they told me to kiss a boy against the brick wall of the middle school, I ran to the swings and got on and I swung with my back to the whole lot of them round robin jamming their tongues in each other’s mouths. I am glad that I held out, because if I hadn’t, then you wouldn’t have been my first kiss and it wouldn’t have been so special and that you made it so cinematic (I still love train tracks to this day) would’ve had to have meant something else entirely, though I can’t even imagine what. I can still hear your Walkman playing in my ears.

It never would have worked out between us. You don’t like cats. Except we both know it totally would’ve worked out between us.

The last time we spoke was before my wedding. It seems like this conversation should have held some significance but I remember little else than that you were upset and that I didn’t know it would be the last time we’d talk. If I had known, I would have said something special. I think you were looking for a moment, and I couldn’t feel your need, but I am clueless and I can’t read people very well so I didn’t give you that moment. Is that why it’s been eleven years and you still have me blocked on all your social media?

I’m glad that I don’t have the body type that you prefer even though you took me on the best date of my entire life, platonically, but whatever. It was still the best date. I’m glad because being your girlfriend and having to eat nothing but grilled chicken and steamed vegetables so you’d keep liking me would suck, and also because I like cake more than trying to force people to find me attractive in spite of the fact that a good portion of my life to this day is dedicated to trying to force people to find me attractive.

Call me lovely. Say you’re lucky. Tell this to all 774 of my friends for me.

I think you believe our worth is determined by how easy we’ve had it, and there is a part of me that won’t stop believing that obviously the suffering deserve love more. Watch me suffer harder. I could win a medal for my suffering.

The night before you met your future wife I was trying to sleep in your bed mostly out of guilt, and I got up and left because I was hungry and I realized we never even got to the part of unbuttoning my jeans and when I drove home in the middle of the night I remember thinking “I’m okay with being alone for a while,” and wondering how I could tell you that, because it wasn’t you. Maybe it was you. There was nothing wrong with you. Not that. But the catch is that we never had to have that conversation. If people ask me why I love your wife so much, I tell them because she was the girl you really needed, which is true, but I leave out the part about how she saved me too.

Yes I know that you should never ever make your booty call banana bread. I mean, I know it now, anyway.

Your worst fear is that I am going to fall in love with you, and even though you never say this explicitly, I sense it. I never address it, but I wish I’d had the guts to grab you and say listen to me, you fucking idiot, you wish I would fall in love with you. If I fell in love with you, you’d be the luckiest man on earth. Sometimes I think you already know this and just don’t want to admit it because what you really fear is that you have already fallen in love with me. You are such an asshole.

Remember after we broke up but you cheated on your fiancée with me because it was “one last time” and I told you not to marry her and you thought I was being jealous and you said you were going to do it anyway even though you had some mysterious reservation about her that you wouldn’t disclose, which should have been the fact that you wanted to fuck me one last time, even though that wasn’t it? I’m really glad that after your divorce you can finally admit that you should’ve listened to me. I may have been jealous, but I was also right.

I had to make myself this visualization exercise where I imagined unraveling my entire brain and rinsing it in bleach and running water to get every trace of you off of it, and then I had to figure out how to put my new clean brain back into my skull, but you were like some kind of mutated, resistant strain of virus that wouldn’t be killed no matter what I did. It was terrible. You made me a mix cd and I only ever listened to the first song where the words were about trying to rid you from my bones and I always wondered how you knew or if you felt that way too or if you just liked the Decembrists and coincidences aren’t meaningful and nothing means anything anymore. God dammit, this went on for more than a decade. I am impressed with our endurance for torturing one another. At least I can say we accomplished that.

You were so weird. There is no other word for it. I dumped you because you told me you refused to take your meds and because you picked a fight with your sister over breastfeeding. I’m glad I didn’t overlook your red flags, which is a miracle for me because I like to make excuses for the horrible behavior of men. I am thrilled we did not end up together. What I am not thrilled about is that we had to stop hooking up, or whatever you call doing everything except having actual sex, because that was so good that it feels unfair that the Universe had to go and make you a freaking lunatic.

On the day you got married it poured rain and I cried all day long. I worked a double. For a little while the electric went out and we had no customers so I painted a cracked piece of bisque while it thundered and a thousand miles away the sun was shining hard on you and your bride.

Are you reading this?

I was much more in love with your house than I was ever actually interested in you, but how could you blame me? It was a three story Victorian with a wisteria-covered pergola. I know you understand because you bought the damned thing. So on the positive side, at least we had something in common in loving that house.

The reason I slept with you was because you were smart, and I thought you’d be the kind of guy who would fall in love with me, and we would end up together and we’d have this great story about how we met, but I was wrong. I have never felt so lonely as the moment a military plane flew over your house and we saw it from your bedroom window and you told me your ex, no your girlfriend, you corrected yourself immediately, was trying to get a flight back from Europe. A few minutes later she called and you were so obviously happy to hear her voice that I could feel your happy too. I knew I never had a chance. After that, you made me stay because you didn’t feel like driving or paying for a cab. In the way the mind represses trauma, I forgot your name. As in, the next morning I woke up in my same clothes in your bed and you were already getting ready for work and I had no idea what your name was.

Please tell me that you have finally come out of the closet. I saw on Facebook that you are now divorced. Please let this be because you finally figured out that you were actually gay and could no longer live a lie. Please let that have happened.

I am a lot less bitter now than I used to be about what you did to me. Someone saw you sitting on your front step with your head between your knees on the day I left. I always wondered about this. There are days when I hope you drink too much and make yourself sick because you could never hold your liquor, and I hope find yourself drunk on your ass and filled with regret. Maybe shame. I think I want you to feel shame, but then somehow I eventually stop feeling like this and I no longer hope I run into you somewhere when I have lipstick on, and I no longer worry about running into you when I don’t have lipstick on, and I guess this is what getting over someone is.

My book, This Is Not My Beautiful Life, is on sale June 7th, 2016. Pre-order now from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iTunes, and Indiebound.

I managed to get lucky enough to score myself a copy of Gwyneth Paltrow’s new book that came out today. It’s called IT’S ALL EASY, and was written by Gwyneth and some other woman (who I’m positive actually wrote the book, but isn’t famous so no one cares, because they needed Gwyneth’s photo to make it sell) and is filled with recipes for things that Gwyneth Paltrow clearly does not eat. Like pasta carbonara. How do I know that Gwyneth doesn’t eat pasta carbonara?

I say this with some authority because I know that Gwyneth Paltrow doesn’t eat food period, because she is not a real human being. She used to be, but not anymore. Back in the late 90s she transcended her earthly form and is now a deity — a lower level deity like a nymph or a dryad or something, but nonetheless NOT A PERSON. This means that she no longer eats or poops or gets zits and her hair always looks flowy and glowy.

I also know that Gwyneth Paltrow does not eat pasta carbonara because I don’t eat pasta carbonara and I am not a gazillionaire movie star with an entourage of servants and trainers and lifestyle coaches and really cool friends. I am a normal mom who won’t go near the stuff because of the fat and carbs and gluten and calories, which I am convinced will make me ugly and kill me (and for the record, we all know that being ugly is worse than being dead). So I know if I won’t eat it, that she is definitely not going to eat it.

I thought to celebrate Gwyneth’s new book, I’d post an excerpt. I figured we would start with breakfast.

GWYNETH PALTROW’S BREAKFAST

INGREDIENTS

“An Air of Ease” Air of Ease is highly oxygenated, infused with extra negative ions, purified and blessed by a Pujari in a remote Hindu temple on the border of Tibet. I take it wherever I go, especially on airplanes, because the air quality in flight is just not acceptable, even in First Class.

Fresh Moonlight. You must rise before dawn while the moon is still up in order to meditate in a quiet space, preferably at an exclusive mindfulness resort in Bali which costs upwards of $20,000.00 per night. Splurge for a private lotus pond whenever possible, because you must love yourself.

1 Spoonful of finely crushed pearls. Please not cultured. You want the natural, organic pearls hand harvested by a traditional, free-diving, Japanese Ama.

1 Pitaya. It is essential that you never refer to this sacred food as a Dragon Fruit because that is terribly gauche. Be aware that you will not be eating the pitaya. It is merely for your aesthetic pleasure because it is bright pink and looks very exotic, and people in middle America have no idea what it is, which means that is the new miracle cure for everything. Try very hard not to think about the fact that the pitaya’s flesh looks exactly like vanilla bean ice cream. You don’t eat sugar and dairy anymore. That is from a different life. Vanilla bean ice cream is the old you. You are now a pitaya person. Trust me, you are better off.

1 oversized, exceptionally slouchy, biodynamic cashmere sweater that costs over a thousand dollars (so you know, not your good one, because this is morning and we go casual).

1 rustic, farmhouse table.

1 dime-sized drop of homemade almond milk. I know it’s hard and messy to squeeze the nut bag. Easy solution? Have your personal assistant do it the night before.

1 squirt of lemon juice. A small squirt, and really treat yourself here. Life is short. The lemon should be handpicked from an ancient, heirloom variety tree from your friend’s private grove at his villa in the Italian countryside. Preferably the villa dates back the Renaissance. Preferably your friend has won an Oscar for something, but not a Golden Globe because tacky. Have the lemon flown to you by private jet to ensure freshness.

DIRECTIONS

Arise and chant several positive affirmations. Admire the lemon and the pitaya on your farmhouse table as you slip on your sweater and go outside into the fresh moonlight to breathe in your air of ease while you exhale the smoke from your American Spirit cigarette over your private lotus pond. Dust your body with the crushed pearls and lick the soft skin of your inner forearm because you are so amazing.

Dot the drop of almond milk on your tongue. Savor its flavor. Be present with it. Give thanks for the squirt of lemon juice because you are blessed (and skinny and rich and beautiful). Don’t worry about being hungry because in an hour will you swallow a full cup of Ayurvedic supplements and they will make you full until it’s time to eat a cacao nib and a sunflower sprout for lunch.

You will have plenty of energy from the rising sun. In fact, you will even be inspired to write a cookbook for mortals in which you can teach them how to make meals from poison wheat paste, fermented and aged bovine bodily fluids, and poultry ovulation. You can sell this book for a bargain $55.00 on your website.

After twenty-five years I still know all the words to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” even though I’ve long since graduated from Teen Spirit to Lady’s Speed Stick (or whatever is on sale at Target this week). It came on the radio – the classic rock station, which is disturbing in and of itself, because that station should be reserved for things like Bob Seger and Led Zeppelin and the Doobie Brothers and everything else my parents listened to. The stuff I listened to shouldn’t be considered “classic” right? Maybe I’m old, but I’m cool with that, because with age came some better sense.

People say that the song is nonsensical, that Kurt Cobain wrote the lyrics in five minutes and you can’t even understand what he’s saying, but I’ve always held on to my interpretation of it as truth. The song is ultimately about the struggle between being a freak and wanting to fit in. We all want to fit in. We want to be popular. But what we think of as popularity is a lie.

The whole idea of popularity first surfaced in middle school. There was this little group of shit- assed, twelve year old bitches who wore Bonne Belle Lip Smackers and had more Lisa Franks and liquid crystals in their sticker books than anyone else. They wore pin-striped Calvins and every year there was a new sneaker and they had to have it first. Everyone copied these girls. We all wanted to sit at their lunch table.

The popular girls swooped in on me quickly. I was an easy target being shy and unaware of my own prettiness, and they were raptors in Esprit pastels. They called me scum. That was my new name. They relentlessly teased me. It was horrible and the crueler they were, the more I wanted to be one of them, which makes no sense whatsoever, but that’s how it works. Always has. The logic probably being that if you become one of them then you are finally immune to or at least relieved from being hurt. It’s not true, but it seems like it ought to be.

I hated these girls. Everyone did. I’d also like to interrupt my own story to say that I have stalked every last one of these cunts on Facebook and they have aged terribly. I look significantly better than all of them, which is not a surprise now that I understand the world a lot better. Mean is just ugly.

One day in ninth grade I experienced a profoundly seismic paradigm shift: the popular crowd wasn’t really popular.

Let me repeat that with some caps lock.

THE POPULAR CROWD ISN’T REALLY POPULAR.

So what are they then, if not genuinely popular? They are ELITE.

Definition of Elite: a group of persons exercising the major share of authority or influence within a larger group.

Definition of Popular: regarded with favor, approval, or affection by people in general.

It’s not the same thing. But we think it is.

I still see it constantly in just about every adult I know. Everyone wants to be part of the elite. I see grown-ass women every day who act like they’re in sixth grade. I’ve seen this play out in jobs, church, yoga, at the PTO, in clubs and organizations and among the mothers of preschoolers. It’s rampant.

But why? We want power and control and an easier life, believing that if we are part of a privileged group that shit won’t be so damn hard all the time. I get it.

Except it’s all a fucking myth.

That shit is always going to be some version of hard is a fundamental truth. Life cannot be controlled. The only thing you can do is to train your mindbodyspirit self to deal with it.

Back in ninth grade when I realized that popular and elite weren’t the same, I changed dramatically. I knew immediately that I wanted no part of a group of people who created an illusion of power by being mean to everyone around them including each other. That isn’t real power and it definitely isn’t true acceptance. The day I realized that, I stopped caring what the popular kids said to me, what they called me, and how they talked about me to others. None of it mattered. They were a pack of pathetic assholes and they still are. Life as one of them would never be fun.

I sought out friends who were interesting, who had unique passions, and friends who were kind, funny, thoughtful, flawed, sincere and different. I have continued to do this throughout my adult life, with astonishing success.

Elitism is misery. It’s materialistic, and fake. It’s stressful. People who want that have bought into the illusion. They live a big fat lie. They even have to BECOME the illusion by looking a specific way, having certain things, living, being and liking the same things as someone else. Their lives are constantly grasping at something that isn’t real and thus can never be held. They chase and chase and never catch real happiness and their spirits become so warped that they cannot perceive beauty and truth and light anymore. They turn into spiritual Gollums, all twisted and crazed with the need to possess a thing that doesn’t even exist and they will go to ridiculous and evil extremes to get that unreal thing that they want so badly. It’s a mess.

You don’t want to live a life like that, so cut that shit out while you still can. It’s never too late to tell the illusion to go fuck itself.

Do you really want to be popular? I can tell you how.

First, ask yourself if you want to be elite or actually popular and think hard about the answer. If you want to be Elite then go figure out why you feel so powerless and what empty holes you’ve got that need filling. Work on that and get back to me.

But if you want to be the true definition of popular in any community or gathering of people, this is how:

Show up and keep showing up. It takes time to build relationships with people. You can’t just arrive and take the place over. You want to be a friend, not a conqueror. You are not Napoleon over here, so calm down.

When you show up, be helpful. Do the work. Be prepared to do a lot of work.

Be generous with your time, your positive words, and your affection.

Stick around when bad stuff happens. That’s when you’re needed most. It’s easy to be a party guest, but harder to clean up and serve the food at a funeral (this is both literal and figurative).

Be one of the problem solvers instead of the blamers.

Do not seek attention, and if you must receive attention, let it be from your happy achievements rather than from being a drama queen, complaining, psycho asshole who sucks all the joy and energy out of every situation.

Forgive the mistakes and bad days of others and don’t take their misgivings personally. Give comfort, not judgment. This can be your new mantra. Get yourself a mala and repeat it 108 times. GIVE COMFORT NOT JUDGMENT.

Embrace your own freak. I am so weird and I don’t even give a shit anymore. I used to try to hide it and act some way that I imagined was how normal people acted, but it was a disaster. People are attracted to people who are authentic and real, not big phony jerks. You be real by loving what you love no matter how odd it might be to someone else or how uncool it is. Authenticity is sincerity and telling the truth about who you are. Sadly, we think if we do this that no one will like us, but it’s the opposite. The good ones will gravitate to you when you have the courage to be real. The haters? Fuck ‘em. They’re trapped in their own illusion. You don’t need them.

That’s basically it.

I have a lot of good memories from high school. I had a wonderful group of friends and we never got into the trouble that the other kids were in. I bet we were all considered huge nerds, but you know what? We were nice to each other. We had a lot of fun. We used to get together and order pizza and play music and have singalongs. I swear, we even played board games. We watched John Hughes movies and played Mario Brothers. We went to parks and hung out and got Slurpees at 7-11. Such dorks, right? But we were happy and our interactions had meaning and value and we didn’t hurt anyone or each other. Guess what? We’re pretty much all still friends to this day.

My friend Michael (I can use his real name because I know at least 75 Michaels) checked into Chick-fil-A on Facebook last week and wrote a status declaring his undying love for their new Frosted Coffee.

There were two possibilities — either someone had hacked into his account, or he had lost his ever loving mind. I mean, really? For someone to actually take the time to publicly announce to the world that they are at Chick-fil-A drinking coffee? Of all places? That seems troubling. Sorry, Michael.

Yet my curiosity was piqued because, you see, Michael is Italian. He knows from good coffee. I respect and value his opinions on all things café noir. Especially because we have this diner that we all love because the food and the diner ambience is fantastic but the coffee is absolute shit. Michael is so offended that he brings his own coffee to the diner so as not to have to drink the shitty diner coffee, and his dedication to high quality java has inspired me to do the same.

This is what I believe: life is too short to drink bad coffee.

Here’s what else I believe: you should have at least one good friend in your life who is always ready to make you a perfect cup of coffee. That friend for me is Michael’s wife. I know I can always go to their house and get a fine cup of exquisitely brewed, mocha-dark, fine ass coffee and that they will always have half and half and raw sugar just how I need it, rather than some watery, acidic store brand garbage out of a nineteen year old Mr. Coffee, served with a side of International Delights and a packet of Splenda.

My friends are Italian, which I already mentioned. You need to have Italian friends because they will never settle for sub-standard coffee under any circumstances and they will always feed you well, and you need people like this in your life. I do anyway.

So when Michael went so far as to post on Facebook that Chick-fil-A had a caffeinated beverage that was good enough for him to announce it on social media, I had to question him.

Really??

His response: “Imagine coffee, ice cream, and Chick-fil-A getting it on in a 3 way. Yes, it’s that good.”

First rule of Victoria: If you ever compare food to sex I am immediately going to want to eat whatever it is you are describing. You could compare liver and onions to missionary and I’d be like, I could really go for some liver and onions right about now. It’s kind of an issue.

There are, however, a few problems with his analogy, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

I began to want Frosted Coffee. But not with an intense burning desire by any means. I wasn’t quite ready for the three-way just yet, in other words. I simply wanted more information and was thinking about Frosted Coffee in the back of my mind like, yeah, that would be cool. I might like it, but I don’t really know if I’m totally into that sort of thing. I tend to prefer my coffee more exclusive, as in not usually blended with my ice cream and certainly not with Chick-fil-A anywhere near the whole scene.

I like my coffee unadulterated. Just me and the coffee, intimately. I may well be one of the only people on earth who doesn’t like any sort of Frappucino, Frappe, caramel drizzled, whipped cream on top foolishness. Because that is a milkshake, not a cup of coffee.

And that is simply not my kind of kink.

For many years I was in a committed relationship with iced lattes, but then we broke up (it was amicable) because I fell wildly in love with Starbucks Cold Brew. Cold Brew and I are currently in a monogamous relationship because I like consistency and predictability and I know the Cold Brew is always going to deliver my caffeine fast and hard the way I like it.

But sometimes you have to try something new.

I decided to do some “research” first, and I visited Chick-fil-A’s website where Frosted Coffee began to flirt with me.

“bet your coffee pot can’t do this” it read.

It was like Frosted Coffee was sending me a mildly flirty, suggestive text, complete with lower case letters and no punctuation.

O rly, Frosted Coffee? Ur right. My coffee pot CAN’T do a lot of things. Just what exactly are you referring to?

Then I went a little deeper into the Chick-fil-A site and turns out, Chick-fil-A is just as cray as you suspected. They have a whole page dedicated to coffee and it’s like a creepy dating site (I am not making this up) where you can take a quiz to see which of their coffee farmers is your best match. Huh? I don’t know. I like coffee and all, but probably not enough to be the American mail order bride to some South American coffee farmer from a high mountain peak in the Andes. I think I’d rather not know, except I took the quiz and apparently I am the soul mate of a dude named Franco Garbanzo (as in chick pea). On the plus side, my future esposo actually lives in Costa Rica and I’ve always wanted to go there and I love sloths, so there’s that…

Franco, te amo, bebe. Tienes mi corazon, mi amor.

I digress.

Chick-fil-A even has a hashtag for its coffee. I kid you not. A hashtag. #coffeewithastory Like people (me naturally) are going to take the time to come up with some kind of inspiring story having to do with Chick-fil-A coffee and post it to social and fucking hashtag that shit. I can see it now. #coffeewithastory #soblessed #friends #coffeeloveandlight #Christiancoffee

How about this: #givemeafuckingbreakwithyourcoffeehashtaggingohmyfreakinggod

I have to tell you. I don’t really care if my coffee has a story. I just want it to be good. Are we clear here? That said, I kind of got to wondering what kind of story my coffee might have.

Did my coffee get its MFA in Creative Nonfiction at the New School?

Or was it more like a my coffee dropped out of high school, traveled the world barefoot, had mystical visions on ayahuasca in the Amazon rainforest, got shot in the shoulder by a drug dealer and is now a yoga teacher kind of a story?

I like both options. For the record.

But enough of all this nonsense. I decided I had to go for it.

My order was easy. Give me the Frosted Coffee.

I want it inside me now.

This is where things got a little…surprising.

See, I had this plan that since I was drinking ice cream, that I was going to attempt to create balance in my Universe here by purposely not ordering whipped cream and cherry on top. Like that would make a difference, I know, but in my head it made a huge difference. Except, Chick-fil-A did not even offer that as an option. Frosted coffee doesn’t come with whipped cream and a cherry. Period. I guess you could order it if you wanted, but somehow that feels wrong. Like if you pull some shit like that, the people at the drive-thru window might have to use their safe word or something. Like asking for whipped cream and a cherry on top of Frosted Coffee is just taking it a step too far. You have crossed the line here, okay? Calm the fuck down and go take a shower.

So here I am trying to drive a car and drink Frosted Coffee at the same time.

I did not have high hopes for this thing. Remember, coffee milkshake concoctions are generally cloying and wussy and not at all my type. Remember how I said that?

Appearances can be deceiving as hell.

There have been a few times in my romantic life where I have totally misread someone, where I thought a guy was maybe not all that hot, was definitely not my type, was probably a little emasculated and wasn’t going to do it for me at all and would probably be one of those poor souls who asks if they can kiss you and then sends you poorly worded love letters for weeks after. Except. Except he turns out to be the greatest lay of your entire life, and has your toes curling while you scream out his name so that for weeks after it is YOU penning the poorly worded, largely unsent, thank God, love letters while weeping about how much you love him and wondering why he isn’t calling you. That ever happen to you? Yup.

Okay, THAT is Frosted Coffee.

It’s not sweet. It’s not cloying. Frosted Coffee isn’t clingy or needy or sappy. It doesn’t contain caramel or weird flavorings, is not a milkshake, and it doesn’t try to be a dessert. Because it isn’t. Because Frosted Coffee don’t play, people.

Frosted Coffee got all the game. All of it.

Cold Brew WHO?

Remember when I said I was trying to drive? I got distracted. By delicious.

“Back seat, windows up, that’s the way you like to…”

Frosted Coffee is like a Ludacris song. “I wanna li-li-li-lick you from yo head to yo toes…”

I honestly couldn’t believe that something this good came from Chick-fil-A. Remember my friend’s analogy about the threesome between coffee, ice cream and Chick-fil-A? Well initially that didn’t work for me because I understood coffee and ice cream getting it on. Those two have had a booty call going on for years, but add Chick-fil-A to the mix and well, I pictured some pearl clutching religious fanatic messing up the whole thing hollering about sin and redemption and how wrong this mashup was in the eyes of the Lord Almighty.

I came to realize that sometimes it’s those quiet ones you have to look out for.

I can’t stop thinking about it. It was so perfectly balanced, so not sweet, so thick and rich and creamy and suckable. I just wanted it in my mouth.

Oh my God, I need to stop.

Here’s the problem. A small Frosted Coffee has 240 calories. That said, I was able to exercise enough control over myself to only drink half of it, but that was really hard. I wanted it all. I started making bargains with God, like if I could have it again I would go to yoga twice a day and eat the Superfood Salad with Kale instead of waffle fries for the rest of my life.

It’s like that boy that you know is such a bad choice and is awful for you, but he makes you do all the bad things, willingly, but you know you have to stop because this just will not end well if you continue like this. Only, in the case of the boy, someone will end up with a restraining order, whereas in the case of Frosted Coffee, someone will end up with diabetes.

Here’s the second problem. I forgot that it had caffeine. Frosted Coffee has plenty of caffeine, but in my head I think I only believe in caffeine’s existence if my drink tastes like kerosene and this tasted so good that I didn’t realize it and a half hour later I turned into Cornholio.

Are you threatening me?

Please threaten me to drink more Frosted Coffee. I want it. I need it. I’m desperately in love with it. At least I think I am. I think it might actually be lust or infatuation, but I can’t get Frosted Coffee out of my head. All I think about is how much I want it. I am already conspiring ways to get more of it. Same day, next week? Please? How about today? Too soon? Am I being too needy? Have I caught too many feels?

In conclusion. Frosted Coffee? Hell fucking yes, Chick-fil-A. You did me right. You gave it to me like I wanted. Like I needed. You were strong and stiff, slow and deep with the right amount of sweetness to cover the bitterness. You kept it simple – vanilla ice cream, coffee, nothing else. You were like my darkest fantasies made manifest. You are my Alabama Affogato.

“Your writing would be so much better if you didn’t use so much profanity.”

“It’s really not becoming for the mother of a young child to swear like you do.”

I hear this often — from faithful readers, from that distant cousin who’s in some Duggar-like religious cult, my grandmother, random strangers on the Internet. But I have no plans to clean up my act any time soon, and sorry, but I’m not sorry.

My mom friends and I love to get together and cuss as soon as our kids are out of earshot. Once the children are immersed in an intense game of hide and seek on the other side of the playground, we settle onto our park bench and let loose a litany of shit. The feeling is a lot like when you’ve been wearing an itchy, tight bra all day long and you finally get home and can take the damned thing off and fling it across the room. Cussing is a relief. It’s a break. It’s alone time, adult entertainment, and NC-17 conversations about something other than potty training and Paw Patrol.

Almost all of my mom-blogging colleagues do it too. We rant, we vent, we sometimes call our toddlers assholes. No amount of disdain from comment trolls has even made a dent in our swearing. In fact, their derision may have made our language worse. Now we’re profane out of solidarity. But it’s also more than that.

Want to know why we moms of young children swear so much the second we’re away from our eavesdropping brood? I’ll tell you. It’s basically all we’ve got left.

There used to be a time when I was much younger (and skinnier) when I could slip into a black bodysuit and a pair of jean shorts (stop, it was the 90s and I also wore this with tights and a pair of Doc Martens), go out, smoke a clove cigarette, do some kind of sweet syrupy shot that was supposed to taste like a dessert and that had a lascivious name like “sticky nipple” or “sugary red whore.” I could make out with random hot guys on ecstasy and afterwards, at three ‘o’ clock in the morning, I could eat enough greasy diner breakfast to clog the arteries of a wild boar and still fit loosely in a size four. When all that was through, I’d go home and sleep ‘til one the next afternoon. And it was amazing.

But now I’m in my forties and I’m married with a preschooler. Long gone are my bodysuit days. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I definitely don’t do drugs. There are no more hot strangers to make out with. I have to get up at six every morning whether I want to or not, and as of yet, I have never wanted to. Hell, I can’t even eat carbs anymore. If I even smell hash browns I gain five pounds, and my cholesterol is high so the fried eggs are out too.

My fun is gone. I spend my days wiping someone else’s butt and driving around in a vehicle that smells like the rotten chicken nugget my daughter dropped somewhere in the dark recesses of her car seat and which I cannot for the life of me find. The only way I can be naughty these days is by using foul language, so I’ve embraced a string of obscenities and I’m holding on to them for dear life, dammit. You can have my sonsofbitches, my tits and ass, and my shitstorms of douchefuckery when you pry them from my cold, dead hands.

Swearing is liberating. It’s the last remaining bastion of freedom from my misspent youth. It’s a reminder that once I was hip and edgy and went to Sonic Youth concerts without worrying about babysitters or third birthday parties, or if my Cheez-its were organic. When I can fully exhale and call someone a fucking asshole, because they are, I feel like my true self again instead of what I’ve become — a poor performance of a good mom who wears pearls and sweater sets and bakes pumpkin bread and says and does all the right things so her kids don’t grow up to become strippers and car thieves who go on cross country crime sprees. Sometimes I desperately need to drop that charade and stop worrying that my daughter is going to turn out like Juliette Lewis in Natural Born Killers if I’m not perfect. Sometimes I need to say: “you know what? This shit sucks.” Then I feel a lot better, because cussing is the only safe form of rebellion available these days.

Call me uneducated if you want, but I have a terminal degree, so that argument won’t fly. Maybe I’m crass, vulgar, headed straight to hell. Perhaps I’m a terrible writer who can’t find a better word or I’m just too lazy to look. To tell you the truth, I don’t really care. I could say that I’ll do better, or I’ll wash out my mouth with a bar of Ivory soap and make a fresh start with pure words and a purer heart, but I won’t. I’m human and I’m flawed, so screw it, because I’m okay just the way I am, and no one likes those goody-goody bitches anyway.

If I tell you that this all began quite innocently, you will probably not believe me. If I try to convince you that I do not spend my life eating rot gut fast food and that I do, in fact, cook wholesome meals which are mostly vegetarian, and filled with organic whole grains and plants watered with unicorn sneezes, you will most likely call bullshit on me, and that is your prerogative. But it’s true, I swear.

And that is why it was highly unusual that a couple weeks ago I found myself unexpectedly in the Taco Bell drive-thru. I feel guilty already, but let me explain.

Let me start with the dream I had the other night first. I had a dream that I was eating the most delightful meal – it contained delectable pizza and magnificent tacos and all amounts of fried chicken and syrupy waffles and I think there was also a bag of Doritos, and as I dreamt I was eating, I could actually taste all of this heavenly junk food, and it was better than a sex dream. I promise you. Except in the dream there was a kind of tragic Greek chorus of faceless bystanders watching me eat my junk food and they were shouting at me that everything I was eating contained gluten and dairy and that it was all poison.

And this, people, this pretty much encapsulates my entire relationship with…okay, everything. I wage constant war with myself between my good side and my dark side, the wholesome and the sordid, the ballet flats and the motorcycle boots, and yeah, the organic, pui lentil, coconut, wheat-free grain bowl and Taco Fucking Bell.

But let me at least try to explain how I ended up in the Taco Bell drive-thru.

I wasn’t driving. My family was going on a little road trip and one of my not all that guilty pleasures is that on road trips I like to eat tacos and sometimes I eat them for breakfast. But because I am rigid and disciplined, I order bean tacos with lettuce and tomato only, thus creating what I believe to be a virtuous vegan meal. Add a light dusting of Ho Shu Wu and Ashwaganda on top and I am practically Gwyneth Paltrow over here.

This particular morning, we found ourselves looking at the brightly lit menu board and suffering from a bad case of paralysis of choice. There were so many things! All of them were toxic. Most of them were also incredibly seductive. None of us could fully decide what to get. We noticed there was a new item! The Quesalupa! What was this? Did it have gluten?

Yup, I asked. I did that. I asked the lady at the Taco Bell drive-thru if the Quesalupa had gluten in it.

“I don’t know. It has cheese.”

“Okay so is the shell corn or flour?” I formally inquired.

The lady sighed audibly. I heard this clearly. I imagined her putting her hand over her receiver and telling her coworkers in a stage whisper that they better get ready because there were some white-assed, white fucking hipster white people from the suburbs driving an SUV suffering from a severe case of First World White People Problems, listening to some Indie surf rock on Apple Radio, wearing Wayfarers and Vans and that next they were probably going to demand free-range eggs from happy chickens who’d received Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Reiki treatments.

“I don’t know, Baby. IT’S FRIED,” the lady said.

And this was easily in my top ten greatest comedic moments of my life and put me right in my place, so I ordered my vegan tacos for breakfast and went on with my bad self for the rest of my road trip.

However. A seed had been planted. And the seed grew Quesalupas in my brain and even though I didn’t know what a Quesalupa even was, I really wanted one. Like I needed one to complete my life. But still raged my internal battle.

A Quesalupa is not even a thing, for god’s sakes. A chalupa is a thing (though not in its Taco Bell incarnation). A quesadilla is a thing. They are not to be morphed, per se, except that Taco Hell is like The Island of Dr. Moreau of Gringo Mexican food. I can forgive them for this, though, because they need to constantly come up with creative names for the exact same combination of the exact same five or six ingredients. They don’t have a lot to work with here – beans, meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes and sour cream. There aren’t really infinite permutations of these things. Like for real, there is only so much you can do with such a limited set and the flavors aren’t even all that exciting.

You know what IS exciting, though? The names of the dishes. They sound WAY more exotic to non-hispanic folk than they actually are, especially when human-centipeded together like a Spanish game of Scrabble on LSD. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, might actually be how Taco Bell comes up with its new products. Anyone want a quesanachotacoladapusadilla? Yum.

Dream job: Taco Bell product developer. You know why? I am positive that they get a bunch of stoners together, get everyone high and see what they come up with. In fact, if someone told me right now that Seth Rogen was the CEO of Taco Bell, I wouldn’t even bat an eyelash. There ya go, I’d say. How might I get in on this action too?

So a week later, I still hadn’t figured out what a quesalupa was, but I still wanted one. At this point, I think it was just the principle. Just to say I did it. Like how adventurers climb mountains. You scaled Denali? Dude. I ate a quesalupa. And, Baby, it was FRIED.

“I think quesalupa translates to Female Cheese Wolf,” I decided.

But my husband, who speaks actual Spanish corrected me. Lobo is the word for wolf in Spanish. Lupo is the word for wolf in Italian. Jesus, Woman, get your romance languages straight! What the hell? And really I should have known this because remember Los Lobos? It’s not like La Bamba wasn’t the greatest movie I ever saw EVER in high school, igniting a lifelong passion for rock star bio-pics!

So as awesome as Female Cheese Wolf would’ve been, I had to give it up. Gretchen, stop trying to make Female Cheese Wolf happen! It’s not going to happen!

So I said the word quesalupa out loud and guess what? CASE OF LUPUS.

“Umm hi, I’d like to order three crunchy bean tacos and a CASE OF LUPUS.”

“I’ll take a side of sour cream, some Fire sauce, a large Diet Pepsi and AN AUTOIMMUNE CONNECTIVE TISSUE DISORDER, please.”

“Hey, would you mind throwing in an order of those cinnamon thingies along with my positive ANA, low platelet count and severe joint pain? You’re amazing. Thank you!”

(Now before you get your teeny lacy panties all jammed up in your butt crack over this, fellow lupus suffers, I AM ONE OF YOU. I have Lupus. I like to laugh about it. If you don’t, well, I can’t help you.)

Long story short, I got myself some quesalupas. I got the bean version and I’ll tell you why. Fast food meat is somewhat alarming to me. The Taco Bell menu seems hell bent on making a point of calling their meat “premium beef” at every opportunity, and to me, this feels like protesting too much. Like, why do they need to say that so emphatically? And really, premium is just a meaningless bullshit marketing word to make stuff sound fancier than it is anyway.

I mean, the word “premium beef” could technically be code for Soylent Green or it could mean 60 percent beef and 40 percent ground earthworms for all I know. In the interest of not getting sued by Taco Bell, I’m sure there is no human flesh or worms in its beef and I’m sure it’s fabulous quality meat, but I’m still not eating it. Suffice to say, I’m positive that the meat in a Taco Bell quesalupa does not come from grass fed Wagyu calves who are massaged with sake while someone recites Basho’s haiku to them, so I’ll stick with beans. Are we cool on this? Great.

Here is what a quesalupa is: it is a quesadilla made with extremely mild pepper jack cheese (I feel like the cheese in question may be of the WIZ variety) folded into the shape of a taco and filled with taco stuff (hence the same 5 ingredients in all Taco Bell dishes). Except the quesadilla “shell” aspect of the product appears to be deep fried.

It looks kinda like a flat puffy taco, and kinda like a fry bread taco, both of which are actual things in the southwest. But it doesn’t really taste like them.

It was by no means disgusting or inedible. It was sort of good, though I am loathe to admit this. There are certain circumstances which we cannot discuss here where I would probably be down with eating this thing, but overall it was underwhelming. It did not live up to the hype I created in my own mind. It was also greasy. This is the kind of thing that is highly likely to give you diarrhea, although miraculously it did not give me diarrhea, and that is really saying something. TMI? Perhaps. But important information nonetheless.

To answer my initial question – the shell is flour or some semblance of gluten thereof. It is indeed very fried.

I somehow found myself passionately consuming this thing standing at my kitchen counter. The quesalupa and I were having a moment. I was practically talking dirty to it. Like sour cream dripping all over my chin, panting, moaning, sighing all of that. But then I got ahold of myself.

“What the hell has gotten into you?! You aren’t that kind of girl! Cut this out. You should be drinking cold pressed green juice! Do you know how much cholesterol is in this? STOP IT!” said my good, wholesome self. “It’s not even really that good! It’s just kind of okay.”

So, after I ate 3/4s of it, I suffered from severe low self-esteem and threw the rest away. Next year on Yom Kippur I will atone for having eaten a quesalupa. Eating a quesalupa made me want to say Hail Marys and go on a three day juice cleanse. It made me want to go to yoga, not to burn calories, but to burn off the bad karma I accrued from eating this instead of a spoonful of almond butter sprinkled with pomegranate arils. The quesalupa is the opposite of Gwyneth Paltrow. It is profane. It is shameless. But ultimately it’s also a tease. It’s like the girl you were so hot for that ended up being a lame lay once you finally got her in bed.

The verdict? Meh. Skip it in favor of dipping some Cool Ranch Doritos in sour cream if you want a cheap thrill.

From the time we are very small we all receive a specific message: YOU NEED TO BE A THING. Pick a thing to be as early as possible and turn yourself into it. This is a very scary expectation to have to carry around all the time. It kills our souls. It’s why so many people are addicted to Xanax and painkillers.

Every time someone asks a child what they want to be when they grow up, or where a teenager is going to college and what their major will be, and every time a couple is accosted about when they are getting married, when they are having a baby, when they are having another baby? That is the world telling all these people that they need to be a thing that is expected of them or they will not be accepted.

She needs to lose weight and he needs to settle down. You should stop doing whatever brings you joy and get a corporate job where you can make ten thousand dollars a month, and you need to get married, and that girl over there needs to stop being such a slut, and that kid needs to get his shit together, and all those little kids better study hard and get high SAT scores. Buy a house. Buy a car. Buy some more stuff and stop being so weird because no one will ever like you if you are weird and you will not fit in unless YOU ARE A THING.

Being a thing is seductive because it frees you from having to think for yourself and to take the risk of creating your own experiences on your own terms. It promises to protect you from rejection. It’s why people join cults. It’s why some become zealots. They want a prescription for life, but there is no manual for life for a good reason. Life is meant to be extremely subjective. You are supposed to learn to decide for yourself in spite of the risk.

I tried to be a thing for a very long time.

In my twenties I was determined to be a wife, believing this would solve all of my problems: fear of abandonment, fear of being alone and not fitting in, insatiable need for validation, lack of confidence in my ability to care for myself, and a gaping wound in my heart because my biological father disowned me as a child.

The Universe rolled its gigantic all-seeing eyes.

So I did all the necessary work to be someone’s wife, fulfilling every single superficial criteria of wife-ness that I could come up with. I would be demure and wear pearls, cook and clean and be wholesome, looking and being a way that was in not even close to myself. I imagined a perfect engagement, wedding, honeymoon, all of it planned out in my mind with the precision and focus of a fucking military sniper, except I didn’t realize that I had the rifle pointed at my own head.

This plan was an epic fail.

But I still didn’t get the message.

I still thought I needed to be a thing and for a while, I was actually fairly successful. I was an overachiever, but deep down I was unsettled and restless and scared and the body of my spirit was covered with cuts and sores and I couldn’t figure out why because look, I was THE THING! I was finally married with a child and I had a degree and a job and I went on yearly vacations and owned property and so the only logical answer was that I was the biggest asshole on earth because I had it all and wasn’t even happy. So I hated myself more.

See the pattern? First I hated myself because I wasn’t a thing, then when I thought I was a thing, I hated myself even more for turning myself into a thing because I wasn’t being real.

The problem was never with me. The problem was always with the thing, yet I blamed myself.

The thing is an illusion. Actually, it’s worse than an illusion because illusions can often be magical and pretty. The thing is a gigantic ugly lie that most of us believe and use to reinforce, self-loathing, inadequacy and all that we are scared half to death of.

The thing is whatever arbitrary role we feel we have to cast ourselves into. It is the ideals we’ll never live up to. It is what society tells us we ought to be at the expense of authenticity and meaning. It is whatever makes us feel untrue to ourselves, left out, anxious, worried, like we can’t find our true purpose. And when we are unsure of our place in this life, we become unmoored, a little lost, a bit helpless and very, very frightened.

Finally I gave up. I could not be the thing. I would never, ever be the thing. I was not a perfect wife or mother or friend or career woman or scholar or a perfect body, or any of that. I was not a perfect anything. I was not A THING that could fit into any pre-molded ideal.

I was just me learning to be my most authentic self. Key word — LEARNING (it’s a process.)

If you feel not good enough, restless, like you want to run away from your life, as if you have some unfulfilled destiny that you can’t quite put your finger on, like you can’t make your next decision or like you haven’t found your purpose or the meaning of life — it is probably because you are trying too hard to be a thing and you are going against your nature.

I am giving you permission right now: YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE A THING ANYMORE.

But I understand that letting go of these roles and expectations that are so profoundly ingrained in us from the time we are born is terrifying. We are taught that hating ourselves is normal, good even, so you’re probably going to hate yourself for first succumbing to the thing, and for trying to shed the thing. Forgive yourself. We all do it. We’re evolutionarily hardwired to want to fit in with the pack for protection so when we go against the grain we freak the hell out until we get used to it.

It’s safe to be different. It’s safe to wander a winding path. It’s often a good idea to step off the path and ramble around in the wilderness a little.

The purpose of life is not to follow a narrow trajectory. It is not to check off a chronologically ordered, alphabetical list of goals.

You will never, ever find the true meaning of life if you define yourself by achievement, titles, career, your place in society or your relationships to other people. You are not an actor who has to take the stage every day in a costume and brilliantly play the role and convincingly recite the lines of the stereotypically perfect son, employee, entrepreneur, cool girl, sorority sister, junior league president, student, or any of it.

Do things, but don’t define yourself by them. Do the things that you feel like doing (within reason, obviously, don’t hurt others or yourself), instead of the things you think you are obligated to do in order to find acceptance and please others.

Your work, your love, your fun, your friends, your clothes, your marriage, your parenting, your anything doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s. AT ALL. EVER. And if you redefine all of these roles on your own terms in a way that works for you and makes you happy, you’re doing it right, regardless of what any asshole has to say about it.

Do you want to know what your purpose in life is?

Create. Recreate. Make things. See old things in new ways. Shed expectations. Embrace all the experiences, even the ones that suck. Accept. Find your own joy even if it’s weird and even if it’s ordinary. Love. Love a lot. Make the world a teensy bit better in any way you can find. Understand that there is no action too small. Say yes. Or also no. Seek out meaningful human interaction every single day. Learn about things that interest you. Listen to birds and ocean waves, to the voices of your loved ones and their stories and the sound of your children breathing as they sleep. Eat good things and move a lot and go outside. Practice patience. Teach yourself not to be afraid (this is hard, I know). Get over stuff. Break the habit of trying to overanalyze every little thing and predict the future. Celebrate. Do this often. Laugh and sing and explore and be curious and wear whatever you want and don’t worry that you’re too loud or too ugly and that no one will ever love you. Smile when you feel stupid. Lie on the ground, press your palm against your heart, jump into cold water. Be alive, even when it hurts.

Today I was up at four in the morning to start the dough rising and stoke the fire so that we might have the bread baked by the time Pa and the boys got in from milking and feeding the livestock. I fried some salt pork, what little we have left of it from last fall’s hog slaughter, and we had enough fresh milk for the littlest ones, which was such a blessing. I still think sadly of the baby that starved when my milk ran dry and we had no milking cow nor any goats at the time and the nearest neighbor who might have helped was twenty-three long miles across the prairie. I would have done anything to have had something to feed her. She was such a fair little baby.

She is buried by the vegetable garden along with the other three children we’ve lost (four in all): one lost to measles, one lost to scarlet fever, one trampled by a bull, and then the baby that starved. I wish we had something that could prevent these terrible diseases. I try to put the lost children out of my mind, though, and to be thankful for the seven children we have that lived and are able to help out here on the homestead. I don’t know what Pa and I would do without them. I am also thankful that I’ve lived to the old age of thirty-four so I could see my firstgrandchild born this past year. Three of my sisters have already passed: typhoid, tuberculosis and childbirth, sadly. I feel very lucky.

Pa jokes with me that for an old gal, I still look chipper. I’ve never gone a day without my corset (often even to bed) and my sunbonnet to keep my skin as pale as a linen sheet. I try to rub tallow on my hands at night when I can to help the bleeding cracks on my palms.

This morning we hoed the garden and sowed a new row of potatoes. After that I set the littlest girls to churning the butter, while the older girls helped me make headcheese. We made six pies, five loaves of bread, a pan of crackers and a pot of hominy, so we should be well fed. Thank the Good Lord in Heaven. Food can be so scarce this time of year.

Pa had to whip all of the boys because he caught them throwing stones when they should’ve been plowing the oat field. We have no time for fooling. A good whipping should teach them right, I daresay.

Later in the day I allowed the littlest girls to play with some sticks and corn cobs on a stump near the clearing, but I warned them to watch out for panthers in the trees above. Luckily the older girls were nearby doing the wash in the stream. While they did the laundry, I boiled some ashes that I’d been collecting from the cookstove and hearth into lye to make soap and I carried six buckets of water up to the cabin from the well.

Pa has been talking about next week possibly making the long journey into town (25 miles) to trade some pelts so that I might be able to purchase some new calico. The children are growing quickly and I haven’t had a new dress for myself in three years. I would also be pleased for him to stop by the post office and see if there is a letter from my sister back East. I miss her so and look forward to our yearly letter exchange. I’ll have to make myself some ink from pokeberries and set to writing her immediately.

Last night Pa shot a bear that was poking around near the chicken coop and we were ecstatic. It had so much meat and we can use the fur to make winter coats or perhaps a new blanket. It was such a gift from God. I roasted some for dinner and the boys ate well after a long day in the fields.

After dinner we will read scripture by lamplight and go to bed. Tomorrow I must iron, complete the hats I started sewing yesterday, mend socks, bake bread for the weekend, change the straw and feathers in the mattresses and sweep the dirt floor of our house, so it really won’t be such a busy day at all. Perhaps when I finish I will be able to sit and have a cup of warm water. I’m saving the last scrapings of tea leaves in case we ever get company, which is quite unlikely, but one never knows. I can hope.

Photo Via Clarion Ledger

A Day in the Life of a Modern Mom

I’m so annoyed, like seriously. I can’t even. I have had the worst day. I need a Xanax. I don’t even know where to start.

This morning when I got up, Ava and Jake totally refused to do anything I asked and I tried to tell them we were going to be late for preschool drop-off, which would then mean that I would be late for yoga – okay, not late, but too late to get my favorite spot right in front of the mirror next to the teacher. Jake wouldn’t put on his shoes, and Ava gagged on the green juice I made her, which really upset me because do you even understand what a lug the juicer is to drag out of the cabinet, not to mention how much I freaking hate cleaning the thing? Neither one of them would take their Omega-3 chewables OR their probiotic drinks, either. It. Was. Nightmarish. On top of that, I can’t even believe I did this. I FORGOT to charge their iPads overnight so that on the way to school they could watch videos of that family who unboxes toys while I try to use my Headspace app to meditate while I drive. Or listen to Beyonce. The kids were near hysterical that they had no iPads for the drive.

I SO needed yoga. You don’t even understand. But after I got the kids into my Honda Odyssey I saw that they had spilled vegan cheddar bunny crackers all over the floor. Then we got stuck in traffic because I have to pass three Starbucks on the way to the preschool and all of them have a drive-thru line that gets so long that it overflows into the actual road and causes atraffic jam. It is too much, and I really wanted a Venti cold brew with coconut mylk, but today it just was not happening. Of course. On the day I needed coffee the most.

I got the kids dropped off for the day and at yoga there was a sub, and it’s this new teacher who plays too much dubstep and I can’t stand her.

Not only that, I have to tell you. I am really pissed because yesterday we had a playdate all set up with my friend Laurynne and when we get to her house, all three of her kids have runny noses. I was all REALLY, LAURYNNE??? You couldn’t let me know in advance that they were seriously ill and you risked my kids getting exposed? That is not a friend. I’m sorry, but friends don’t do that. You don’t know how cranky Ava gets when her nose is stuffy. It’s miserable for me to deal with her. So. Yeah. Buh-bye, Laurynne. Like I said. NOT A FRIEND.

On top of that, I am extremely worried about vaccines. I had Ava vaccinated because I just did not know better, but now I think I know better, so I’m trying to do better, and I didn’t vaccinate Jake, but I am truly agonizing over this decision. I’m just not convinced that vaccines don’t cause all kinds of horrible diseases and look at poor Ava. Maybe she would be reading by now if it wasn’t for the MMR? I wanted her reading at four so it wouldn’t ruin her chances at the Ivy Leagues.

After yoga I had to go to Whole Foods and there were no parking spots. I almost had a panic attack and I was out of Chromium and Resveratrol, so it was definitely an emergency. Besides that we need more organic orange scented butt wipes and I wanted fresher microgreens, so it wasn’t like I could skip a shopping trip today. And I had to get home in time to let the cleaning lady in! I was almost late.

When I got home, while Yolanda cleaned, I went online and ordered myself a waist trainer. They’re awesome. All the Kardashians use them. They’re the newest thing and they make your waist TEENY. Then I ordered two shirts for $500.00, so I got a good deal, and by then it was time to pick up my birth control prescription at the drive-thru pharmacy and then go get the kids so I could take them to creative movement and imaginative play class, followed by a playdate at the park.

Except, when we got to the park I couldn’t stop worrying about how dangerous it is there. There were bees and mosquitoes (Zika virus!!!!) and a kid could totally fall off a swing and get really hurt. Like skin their knees or something, hurt. Besides that, the slide was hot from the sun. Not cool. The heat actually caused Jake discomfort.

I noticed that my Botox is wearing off and I need to book another appointment, and I am SO PALE, eww. I need to get a spray tan, and I was so fried out by dinner time that I completely slacked and made the kids grilled cheeses. I know. Gluten and casein. I was so ashamed. I wish I had picked up a pack of vegan almond cheese at Whole Foods, but my kids are so picky…

But like I said I was tired, so I gave them a bath, then gave them their iPads while I zoned out with mine and participated in a heated debate in a Facebook comments thread with some bitch in Ohio who thinks it’s okay to give a baby freaking formula. She claimed her milk dried up. I bet she was too lazy to even call a lactation consultant.

Then I facetimed with my friend Julee, and after that I took a cute pic of Ava and Jake with the dog and posted it to my Instagram before they finally went to bed and I could finish my bottle of wine.

Such a long day. Honestly, I don’t even know how I do it. The life of a mother is exhausting.

I also enjoyed this article from the New York Times "What Women Find in Friends That They May Not Get From Love." I think too often women make romantic love with men their priority at the expense of nurturing meaningful, and often more fulfilling female friendships. How can you add meaning to a platonic friendship today? I invited a friend over to my house for dinner this evening.

Speaking of the New York Times. I recently made a switch. I found that I was messing on Facebook too much because I was using my newsfeed to find articles to read, except that a lot of articles that people were posting were kind of low-energy (in the Wayne Dyer sense) and I wasn't reading enough high quality journalism and articles about actual arts and culture and the things I loved. So I renewed my subscription to the New York Times, got the app on my phone and said goodbye to reading garbage on Facebook. You would not believe how much my overall mental well-being has improved as a result.

Immediately try this recipe for roasted yams with yogurt lime sauce. They were addictive. I couldn't stop eating them and they were super simple to throw together. I should also add that I don't totally love sweet potatoes, so the fact that I liked this recipe so much is testament to how good it is.

One of my New Year's Resolutions was to sing and dance in the car as often as possible, at the top of my lungs, with no fear of getting caught, or being laughed at, and without stopping if someone sees me. You just have to sing! It's important! Singing is so good for the soul, you have no idea, and since I've been doing it, I feel really good. My daughter gets in on the action too, and this past week, she found a new song that she likes, so this is our current favorite song to sing in the car (we just heard it on the radio one day and she loved it, so now when it comes on we both get all excited and turn it up, because thank God my child finally likes a song that is something other than Taylor Swift (who I love, but still):

This week I tore through Caroline Kepnes's latest book HIDDEN BODIES, which is the sequel to YOU, the best thriller I've read in ages. Both of these books are fabulous - dirty sexy, violent, satirical, witty, suspenseful, pure, indulgent literary bliss. I loved every word.

Recently, I finished reading Dan Marshall's amazing memoir HOME IS BURNING. Such a good book, about a tragic subject matter. The premise of the book is that Marshall, your average, professional, 25 year old guy living in LA returns home to Salt Lake City to take care of his father who has recently been diagnosed with ALS. At the same time, his mother is also undergoing chemo for cancer. There is sibling drama, relationship trouble, an ecstasy fueled sex bender, peeing cats, and the greatest Polish housekeeper in literary history, and somehow Marshall makes what could've been a really sad story into something hilarious, entertaining and altogether heartwarming. Completely worth reading. I loved it.

Sometimes you just have to get yourself a present, so this past week I definitely splurged on something I've wanted for a long time - a museum membership. Close to my home, there is a historic home with waterways, lily ponds, an orchid greenhouse and lush gardens. It is absolutely magical - there are swans, spider monkeys leaping through the treetops, and manatees gliding through the mangroves and you can stand on a wooden bridge and watch them. If they aren't around there are plenty of koi to look at. I can't even explain how much I love this place. I always feel so healed after a visit, like all is right with the world, like everything is going to be okay, so I decided that I should be able to go as often as I'd like, and I bought the membership. Now I can go every single day if I need to. So very worth the annual fee of $55.00. Next, I'm considering buying myself a membership to my city's art museum because I feel mentally refreshed after looking at art, in the same way that I do from walking in gardens. For interested locals or people who are visiting Fort Lauderdale, you will love The Bonnet House Museum and Gardens. You can see pictures of all my adventures on My Instagram.

This weekend we also visited Cafe Boulud on the island in Palm Beach, where I ate a lobster roll that was so good that nothing else in the entire world mattered, including the amount of calories that were probably in it. That lobster roll was a bit of a lesson though. The wife half of the other couple we were with also wanted the lobster roll. Both of us really wanted the lobster roll, but we also both wanted to eat something healthy and spare so we could be one day aspire to skinny perfection. I decided that it is so rare that I get to eat at places as amazing as Cafe Boulud, that I should splurge. My new friend said if I ordered it she would be jealous if she didn't and then she wouldn't enjoy her salad.

We both decided that an important rule of life is this: If you are at a restaurant where they have really, really perfect lobster rolls (do not settle for shitty lobster rolls under any circumstances) you must absolutely order the lobster roll regardless of price or calories or carbs or gluten or whatever you are worried about eating. Because life is too damn short not to have the really perfect lobster roll. NO. REGRETS. And then we went and walked it all off at The Palm Beach Zoo anyway, so all was right in the end, as I knew it would be. I even got to see both a Fennec Fox and a Komodo Dragon in real life. Perfect day.

People often tell me that they can't keep up with me. Seriously, you have no idea how often I hear this. I am merely living the life I have always dreamed of, on my own terms, finally, after a very long time of living for other people's expectations, repressing my passions, and feeling like I was missing out. Besides that, I like site-seeing, I love seeking out beauty, I need adventures, and my body feels better when I spend as much time as possible outside in nature, in motion.

Plus, I'm trying to teach my daughter this:

This week my plan is to focus on healthy eating, getting lots of exercise, not worrying about the cleanliness of my house too much, and writing some more good stories for you all.

I am very excited because this coming weekend is my annual trip over the the West Coast of Florida for Spring Training! Next week's recap will be my baseball edition, I guess! See you then and behave yourselves in the meantime.

With that, I'll leave you with some words of wisdom from my friend Sarah. ( Like her Facebook page.) This advice has served me well this week.

1. Call up all your friends on the block and tell them to come over around three this Saturday for a birthday party.

2. Get a box of Duncan Hines yellow cake mix and bake it. Decorate with a can of vanilla frosting. Food coloring can be added if desired. Red #2 is quite appealing to children. Sprinkles are also fine but don't go overboard.

3. Don't forget to buy a 5 gallon, clear plastic tub of vanilla ice cream. The kind with no label that costs about $1.50 for the whole thing and melts into a big pile of foam.

4. Twist a few crepe paper streamers and scotch tape them above your picture window in your living room. If you're feeling mighty generous, you may also blow up a few balloons and toss them around the living room.

5. Haul the card table and folding chairs up from the cellar and set them up. You are now finished decorating for the party.

6. Find a kid with chicken pox and invite him to the party too so that all the other kids will get it and be done with it.

7. Mix up several pitchers of Kool-Aid. Dump potato chips into bowls. Open a can of Planter's Cheese Balls. Be careful not to sever a finger on the metal lid. You are now finished with the party food.

8. See if the Sears catalog has that ridiculous Ice Bird snow cone maker thing your child sees the commercial for after Hong Kong Phooey and keeps fussing about. If they don't have it, oh well. Get her a Slinky and some Silly Putty. You know she's just going to play with it once and get bored anyway and before you know it, she'll be right back to wrapping a bath towel around herself, jumping on the sofa saying she's Isis.

9. Wrap the birthday gift in the funny papers from last week's Sunday Times.

10. At the birthday party, loosely organize a few games. Simon Says is good. Also have the children stand on a chair and attempt to toss clothes pins into a mixing bowl on the floor. After that, play musical chairs to the Grease soundtrack on the record player. That's enough. The kids don't need to get too wound up.

11. Sing "Happy Birthday," cut the cake and take some pictures. Be sure to buy extra flash bulbs for the camera just in case. Serve the cake and ice cream on some paper plates with plastic spoons.

12. Send the kids out into the yard until their parents come to pick them up.

13. Before you child can play with any gifts, make him sit at the kitchen table with a pencil and a pad of paper and write Thank You notes to everyone who came. Tell him if he doesn't hurry up he'll miss Emergency! when it comes on at eight.

14. Go make yourself a White Russian and light up an Eve; freshen yourself up a little so you don't look like a Sleestak.

2. Hire an expensive caterer. Ask them to make pizza, chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese. Even though they are expensive caterers. Arrange for an open bar for the adults.

3. Attend several cake tastings. Consult Facebook again. Post sample photos of potential cakes to all social media outlets asking for input. Making a decision between fondant and buttercream is hard. Also, can they make vegan buttercream like out of coconut oil or something so you can incorporate more medium-chain fatty acids into the menu?

4. Find a handmade cake topper of your child's favorite character on Etsy and order it. The have your baker recreate it out of fondant and spun sugar.

5. Hire a photographer for the event. Show them at least 15 twee mommy blogs whose candid, yet quaintly natural style you'd like to copy. Yet not. But sort of. You know, right?

6. Obsess over Pinterest for cake table decorating ideas and search desperately for someone to make you a bunting EXACTLY LIKE THIS ONE that you saw on Pinterest. Go buy lots of cake stands and tall glass jars to copy the exact look.

7. Go to a stationery store and pore through books of sample invitations. Choose one and include a professional photo of your child to personalize. Send it out several months before the party actually occurs.

8. Audition entertainers. You want to have at least two costumed characters, face painters and balloon animal makers.

9. Rent your bounce house.

10. On second thought, go ahead and rent a petting zoo too.

11. Worry incessantly over head count. How many parents will be present? Will guests be bringing siblings even if they weren't specifically invited. Is that rude? Wait no, maybe it's rude to not want siblings and all the siblings should be invited too? Oh my God! This is SO STRESSFUL.

12. Take a Xanax. Holy crap, have a Caipirinha too even though you can't even freaking pronounce it. Insist that you see them make it with Splenda. Wait, how many calories are in Cachaca?

13. Begin dieting for party, but don't call it a diet. It's a 30 Day Holistic Nutrition CHALLENGE.

14. Have your low-lights touched up, get a gel mani-pedi and spray tan.

15. Buy an expensive costume for your child to wear. If you have a daughter or a non-gender conforming son it must involve an exceptionally large tutu. There must be tulle. Lots of tulle. And a tiara. Possibly wings, but definitely a tiara.

16. Have your party planner assemble themed, gender appropriate goody bags as party favors. Wait no. That is totally a micro-aggression. We are all about gender-NEUTRAL now. Make the party planner redo the bags, but put them into cute little Chinese takeout boxes. OMG, is that cultural appropriation?

17. Decide at the last minute that you need a separate menu for the adults. Call caterer in hysterics.

18. Oh my God. Call the caterer back. There will also need to be gluten free, casein free and vegan options of every single menu item and absolutely no peanuts.

19. If Toys R Us is out of the "must-have" toy of the season, go to extreme lengths to make sure you get that toy in time for the party even if this means finding it on eBay for $600.00 and driving four hours each way to pick it up from a woman named Wanda Lee who lives in a trailer and is a hoarder. Eww.

20. Since Wanda Lee is also an animal hoarder, take home at least one kitten and one puppy from her trailer. You have to save those animals. High tail it out of Leisure Land Central just as the A & E cameras pull up with the 1-800-GOT-JUNK trucks.

21. You totally forgot to call a DJ. Facebook status about this immediately from your iPhone. Use A LOT OF CAPS LOCK. Post a selfie where you look super upset but your overlined lipstick is perfect and your eyebrows are on fleek, of course.

22. After the party is over, worry if you've tipped the vendors enough.

23. Mail out the pre-printed Thank You cards that all say the exact same thing and have a picture of your kid on them just like the invitations did. Not having to write them out for your child is so so so much less stressful.

24. Book therapy appointment because this was all just so...triggering.